In a Desperate Land
by Kansas42
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. Dean figures out how to save Sam. AU as of AHBL. COMPLETE.
1. Not a Hamlet Man

Author's Notes: I got the idea for this before the season 2 finale, so this is definitely AU as of "All Hell Breaks Loose". Spoilers really for anything before that. Also, I should note that this is a bit longer than I usually like to make a chapter, but I just couldn't make myself separate it, so, oh well. Multiple POV in this fic.

Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. Dean makes a decision with a little help from Jim Morrison.

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine, and neither are Dean and Sam. Mental Sammy and Dean-In-His-Head, though, are totally mine. Read and you shall discover.

"In a Desperate Land"

I.

_This is the end_

_Beautiful friend_

_This is the end_

_My only friend, the end_

It'd been stuck in his head for days now, ever since he caught the tail-end of Apocalypse Now on television. The funny thing was, he wasn't even a huge fan of the flick—for him, Martin Sheen's character was way too much of a whiny bastard, too busy monologuing about to kill or not to kill, instead of just _getting the damn job done already_. It was what his dad had once called the "Hamlet Syndrome"—to which Dean had said, "Dude, you read _Hamlet_?"

John had, so Dean did too, and for the most part was bored out of his friggin mind—Hamlet was a loser, his mother was a bitch, and his chick was just downright stupid—she should have killed Hamlet, and saved everyone some trouble. You can go cuckoo for cocoa-puffs _after _you avenge your dad. But Ophelia was a moron, so she offed herself instead, and Dean quickly came to the decision that this was the dumbest play ever.

Still, his dad had been right—Hamlet was a sniveling, waffling bastard, and his indecision cost pretty much _everybody_ their lives.

Dean understood that when you planned to kill somebody, you couldn't leave room for indecision. You took a minute, you made your choice, and then you followed through.

Dad had laid that choice on Dean, and Dean was left with a decision to make: save Sammy or kill Sammy; those were the only two options, in the end. And he knew he couldn't kill Sam, no matter what; it couldn't be done, so he had to save his brother. Dean had to save him by any means necessary.

Dean figured out how to save Sam four days after watching Apocalypse Now. He'd been doing the research for once . . . Sammy was taking his freaking _hour_ long shower . . . and Dean had come across some spells by accident, all the while listening to the Doors playing incessantly in his head.

_Can you picture what will be?_

_So limitless and free_

_Desperately in need of some stranger's hand_

_In a desperate land_

"Holy crap," Dean had said, looking at the spell and what it called for. Nothing he couldn't get without raising too much suspicion . . . Sam was barely aware of his brother these days anyway. Dean could get the ingredients, perform the spell . . . but it wouldn't be enough. The Demon would still be after them, and Sam would still be in danger.

_Unless_

Unless. Unless he made a deal.

Sam had come out of the bathroom ten minutes later and saw Dean staring blankly into the corner. "Dude," he said. "You okay? What's going on?"

Dean had looked at his brother then, took a minute to just look at him. Freakishly tall and innocent looking, Sam was giving him the emo eyes of empathy while using one of the motel's crappy pink towels to dry off his girly ass hair. It would have been funny, should've been funny, but Dean was looking into a double-image, seeing his 23 year old brother standing before him and his father with a baby in his arms.

_Take your brother outside and run as fast as you can_, Dad had said all those years ago, but that plan wouldn't work anymore; Dean had been running all his life, and what did he have to show for it? A bitchin' car, a dead dad, and a brother that was becoming something _else_. Even with the Impala, he couldn't count that as a win.

Dean had been running all his life, and your Demons always catch up with you eventually. He couldn't save Sammy that way. _And if you can't save Sammy, you'll have to kill him._

_So you save Sammy_, a voice had said quietly in his head. It was Sam's voice, always Sam's voice back there, in the corner of his mind explaining what he had to do. _You gotta kill me or save me, and you can't kill me soooooo . . . come on, man, I know you didn't go to college or anything, but even YOU should be able to figure this one out_

_Asshole_, Dean said back to Mental Sammy, but M. Sam was right—Dean knew what he had to do.

_You save him. You save him by any means necessary._

"Dean? Helllllo?" Sam waved a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Dean?"

Dean had blinked, looked at Sam, and made his decision. "Yeah," he said quickly. "I'm fine."

"You sure? What's going on?"

"Nothing," Dean had lied. "Nothing."

And then he had smirked.

"Nice towel," he said.

II.

The thing was, this was a fucktastic plan—not just lousy or kinda crappy but dear-fucking-_Christ_-this-_SUCKS_ kind of plan—but it was really the only solution Dean had, so he was going with it, fucktastic or not. Maybe a few months ago, Dean wouldn't have jumped on so readily—he was always kind of a fucked up guy, but he never would have called himself suicidal—but things had changed in the last few months. _Sam_ had changed.

And he was still changing.

It had started sometime after Madison, Dean was sure. Sometime after his baby brother put a silver bullet in her heart. His nightmares got more intense, more vivid, more focused, until it seemed that Sam couldn't go to sleep without being sucked into some weirdo vision. Sam had said that the visions were changing, like he could move around and look at things more clearly, but Dean could give a rat's ass about what a vision felt like. Dean only cared about the side effects.

Because there _were_ definite side effects—number one being that the pain had gotten worse. Dean didn't know how that was even possible, thought that his brother always looked like warmed up road kill after the _first_ visions, but these new ones apparently brought pain to new levels, because Sam could be incapacitated for _days_ after having one. He slept constantly, like he had the first few weeks after Jessica, but he never looked rested. He never looked content.

Dean stood up from his chair and walked across the motel room—they were in North Carolina now, after finishing up another poltergeist hunt. Sam was asleep, of course, and Dean knelt by his side. Once upon a time, that would have woken Sam, but now things were different.

The visions didn't worry Dean as much as they should have, because he was too busy being worried about a few other, psychotic things. The telekinesis, for instance, that whole I-moved-the-cabinet-with-my-head thing? Apparently, not a one time deal. About seven weeks ago, they were holed up in Wisconsin or some place, fighting over whether to watch the second Terminator or some freakish _Animal Planet_ thing, and then out of nowhere Sam had the remote . . . only a second ago, Dean had been holding the remote, and he was all the way across the room.

Since then, it had gotten worse. Like seriously fucking worse.

Sam's control over the telekinesis was way better than his control over the visions—he could move just about anything if he concentrated hard enough. But sometimes his control broke, especially when he was pissed, and Dean had come perilously close to being impaled by a floating dagger more than once. And half the time Sam used his whole feel-the-force thing, his nose would start bleeding, not like a kid's nose but like practically _gushing_ blood.

Twice now, Dean had been forced to take Sam to the hospital, despite the Feds and the risk, because he could not get that blood to _stop_

And he couldn't get through to Sammy, couldn't make Sammy see how bad it was getting. _Dean, if I hadn't lifted that gun, you'd be dead right now, okay_? And Dean appreciated that, appreciated not having a bullet shatter his fucking skull, but none of that was really the issue. The visions and the telekinesis—they weren't the real problem.

Sam was the real problem. Sam was . . . changing.

It was in little ways, mostly. Ways that only a brother could tell, things that might not seem like such a big deal to anybody else. But Dean could see it, could see how Sam's already quick temper was flaring up at the smallest things. Dean couldn't tell anymore what was gonna set Sam off, just that something would because something always did.

And the hunting had changed, too. They killed everything that moved, and Sam didn't care. Sam never hesitated.

Dean loved his brother, but Sam _always_ hesitated. He always had to brood about things, waffle and whine and make sure he was righteous in his actions. When Dean had once mentioned that he had read Hamlet forever ago, Sam had brightened up immediately. "That's my favorite play," he had said.

Dean had rolled his eyes, but he sure as hell hadn't been surprised.

Now, though, now Sam wasn't brooding. He wasn't waffling or whining; he was just killing, without remorse. Sometimes, Dean thought he even enjoyed the hunting.

_You don't think anything_, Mental Sammy said flatly. _You KNOW that he enjoys it, and not just the hunting. Sammy enjoys the killing, the blood on his hands. Sam LOVES knowing that he has the power to end a life, any life._

The truth was, Sam was acting more like Dean, and that seriously scared the fuck out of Dean. Sam liked Hamlet; Sam would probably feel sorry for the guy in Apocalypse Now. _Dean_ was the guy with the questionable morals. _Dean_ was the guy who enjoyed killing every evil sonofabitch that he could find.

This wasn't Sam anymore. At least, it wouldn't be for long.

Dean started to stand up and go back to the computer when Sam shifted under the covers, muttering restlessly in his sleep. Dean couldn't make out the words, just the fear beneath them, and he started to reach out with one hand when he stopped mid-motion. The phone on the bedside table had just started to shake.

Then, _everything_ in the room started to shake.

Dean moved his arm again and rested his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam," Dean said, "Wake up. It's just a nightmare."

_How would YOU know if it's just a nightmare_? Mental Sammy said. _For all you know, Sam's having a vision of killing you._

_You're really an ASS sometimes, you know that_? Dean thought bitterly. Sometimes, he wondered if the real Sam had an annoying voice going off in his ear too, some kind of Mental Dean to point out when he was fucking up and what he had to do. He didn't ask, because he knew the answer. _The Demon was right about you. You do need them a helluva lot more than they need you._

_Fuck off_, Dean told Mental Sammy. Then he returned his attention to real Sammy and the room that was still shaking. "Sam. Come on, man, wake up. I mean, don't get me wrong, this place is a real fixer-upper, but shaking it apart ain't gonna help matters none."

Sammy only shifted in his sleep, so Dean shook him harder. "_Sammy_," he said. "Sammy, _wake up_."

Sam's eyes snapped open and his fingers dug painfully into Dean's wrist. He glared up at Dean, but Dean couldn't tell if he was fully aware or not.

"Sam," Dean said and cringed a little at the waver he heard in his voice. "Sam, man. It's okay. It's me. It's _Dean._"

"I _know_ that," Sam snapped. "I'm not _blind_, Dean."

"Yeah, well, I'm not invincible, man," Dean said back. Sam continued to glare at his brother, but Dean could read the confusion in his eyes. "You're gouging holes in my wrist big enough to breathe through," he added softly.

Sam blinked and looked down. His fingernails had torn through Dean's skin, leaving a small of pool of blood and trickles of red trailing down Dean's arm. For a second, Dean actually could feel the pressure _increase_ as Sam gripped harder and further through his skin.

_He's changing_, Mental Sammy said. _You have to fix this before it's too late._

Then the pressure around his wrist disappeared as Sam withdrew his hand. "Jesus, Dean," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

Dean shrugged, knowing that his eyes betrayed the gesture. "That's okay, Sammy," he said as he glanced down at his wrist. The blood flow had already stopped but bruises were beginning to form. Truth be told, he'd always been an easy bruiser, and he knew by tomorrow his wrist would be entirely purple and blue.

"It's not okay," Sam said, and Dean glanced up. Sam was awfully pale, and there was a lot of white showing around the eyes. "I'm sorry, man, really. I didn't mean—I mean, I wouldn't ever—"

"Chill, Sam," Dean said. "It's okay. I know." He took a step back before he realized he was doing it. Fortunately, Sam didn't seem to notice. "You were sort of shaking the furniture with that nightmare there, Sammy," he said. "You dream anything, you know, _interesting_?"

Sam looked down at the bed. "No," he said. "Wasn't a vision."

Dean nodded. "Okay," he said. "So what was it?"

"Nothing."

"Sam—"

"Really, Dean. It was nothing."

"Uh-huh." Dean shook his head. "That's crap, Sam. You know it is. You just blew a 10.0 on the Richter Scale, Sammy! Obviously, you were dreaming something pretty nasty." Sam just turned away from him, so Dean edged closer. "Sam, man—"

"Goddammit, Dean!" Sam snapped. "It's none of your _fucking_ business! It was just. A Fucking. Dream. All _right_?"

And there Sam was, glaring at him again, only this wasn't a pissy-little brother glare; this was rage, this was _hate_, and it wasn't so much concealed as echoing in Sam's eyes. It had Dean backing up again, hands up and a mocking, sad smile on his face.

"I got it, man," Dean said. "I got it. None of my fucking business. I got the memo, all right? I'll leave you the fuck alone."

Dean turned away, and Sam caught him by the wrist. The bruised, punctured wrist. "_Fuck_, Sammy!" Dean hissed.

"I'm sorry," Sam said quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't want, I mean, I didn't mean to—not _that_ wrist, I . . . I didn't mean to hurt you. I've just . . ." Sam trailed off, looking both miserable and frightened. "I'm just so tired, Dean. I never meant . . ."

"It's okay," Dean said again. "It's all right."

"No, Dean—"

"Sam, _really_. It's okay. It's fine."

It wasn't. God, it wasn't, but it would be.

It would be.

"I was just going to get something to eat," Dean said. "You hungry?"

"No."

"Good, I'll get you a cheeseburger. Be back in twenty."

"Dean . . ."

Dean turned around. "Yeah?" he said.

Sam stared at him for a second, looking _small_, somehow, looking helpless. And there was that double image again; Dean could see a little boy hiding under the huge covers, pretending to be a monster.

_Rawr, Dean. Rawr, I got you._

_Yeah, kid_, Dean thought. _Yeah, you always got me._

Sam held his gaze for a minute, and then let it drop to the covers below. "I'm sorry," he said again, more to the bed than to Dean.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said softly. "It's gonna be okay."

Once he saved Sammy, everything would be okay.

III.

Sam didn't know what was happening to him.

_Well, that's a bunch of crap_, Dean's voice said in his head. _You know EXACTLY what's happening to you. You just don't want to admit it._

Sam nodded to himself, conceding the point. Dean-In-His-Head was right. Sam knew what was happening.

He was changing. He didn't know how to stop it.

And somehow, even more terrifying, Dean was changing too.

He wasn't sure when he first noticed it. Maybe about a week ago, maybe more. At first, Sam assumed that Dean was just scared, about what was happening to his brother, about what he might have to do. But Sam had seen Dean scared and this wasn't exactly it. Dean should have been angry, closed off.

He shouldn't have been . . .resolved.

Because that's what this was; Dean looked like he was ready. It was something Sam had seen before, once or twice, and that scared the crap out of him . . . because Dean only acted like this when he thought he was about to die. He didn't look scared. He looked prepared. Like he was waiting.

Dean didn't _do_ waiting. But that's definitely what he was doing now.

_This is the end_

_My only friend, the end_

And _that _was unsettling, too, that damn_ song_ playing in his head all the time. Sam knew that it was only stuck in his head because it was stuck in _Dean's_ head—something that Sam had decided not to tell Dean about, this new little telepathy thing he had going. It had only started about a month ago or so, and it was extraordinarily inconsistent, coming and going whenever it pleased. Mostly, he picked up random thoughts from Dean, or sometimes from a random person who was in particularly bad mood. But Sam couldn't control it, couldn't use it to figure out Dean's plan; all he could do was hear remnants of this damn song.

_Of our elaborate plans, the end_

_Of everything that stands, the end_

_No safety or surprise, the end_

_I'll never look into your eyes . . . again_

Creepy. It was fucking _creepy_

But Sam had no way of asking Dean about it, no way of saying, "Hey, bro? Why do you got the world's most depressing song playing constantly in your head?" Not without giving up his latest secret, anyway, and Sam didn't want to give that up. Didn't want to think about it.

Couldn't think about it.

_You're changing_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _And there's not a damn thing in the world that you can do about it._

Sam nodded again, conceding the point. He knew that there was nothing he could do.

He wondered if Dean did.

IV.

Sam was feeling lousy, and for once it had nothing to do with his powers or with changing—he was simply getting sick, in bed with 103 degree fever. Dean stayed in with him, absently tending to him and just as absently cleaning his guns and organizing the weapons. The disattachment was seriously freaking Sam out, but he didn't have to energy to shake answers out of his brother.

Still, when Dean set another glass of water down by Sam's side (the first two were still half-full from ten and twenty minutes ago) Sam sat up and said, "What's wrong, Dean?"

Dean looked at him. "I'm fine," he said. He sounded distracted, like he was trying to have two conversations at once. He put a cool hand down to Sam's forehead. "You feeling worse?" he asked. "You seem a little hotter."

"Never thought you'd admit it," Sam said. Dean gave him a vague smile, like, ha-ha, very funny kid, but Daddy's got his mind on other things, and Sam took hold of his wrist, the one he had practically torn apart two weeks ago. It still looked a little off-color.

"Dean," Sam said. "What's going on with you? It's like you're not even here, man."

"I'm fine," Dean said insistently. "I've just . . . I've just got things on my mind. It's not a big deal, Sammy." He flashed a smirk. "Even the handsome brother gets to brood sometimes."

Sam wasn't fooled. "Is that what this? Brooding?" Because it certainly didn't feel like brooding, but how did Sam ask, "What are you waiting for, Dean?" without getting some kind of cheap, half-assed answer.

Instead, he asked, "Is it cause of me? Is it because I've, I'm—"

"You're nothing," Dean said sharply. "You're not changing into anything, Sammy. Jeez, you should learn a new song already."

That was rich, coming from Dean, but Sam didn't pursue the lie, even though it was so obvious that Sam could actually _spot it_ as a lie. As a rule, the Winchester brothers were old pros at the game of lies, but Dean's heart wasn't in it. He knew the truth, even if he wouldn't admit it.

_Not to me, anyway_, Sam thought. _Maybe, finally, he's admitted it to himself._

"All right," Sam said, knowing that it wasn't all right but that there wasn't much he could do about it right then. "Is it Dad, then? Is that what this is about?" They were coming up on the anniversary in a few weeks, and Dean had always been good with anniversaries when it came to the people who had died.

Dean didn't answer, just walked back over to his side of the room to start cleaning his guns again. He had already cleaned them three times, but Sam wasn't sure if Dean actually knew that. It was like he was stuck in repetitive motion, going through the same actions over and over again, looping endlessly, just like the song in their heads.

Only not endlessly. There was an end to this, but Sam didn't know if he'd want to see it.

Dean still hadn't answered, so Sam called out his name. Dean did nothing, just worked on his already perfectly clean guns. Sam sighed. "Look, Dean, I know—I know how angry you are at Dad, but, man, this isn't healthy. You gotta—"

"I'm not," Dean interrupted, and Sam blinked, backtracking what he had just said. Dean rolled his eyes, but clarified, "I'm not angry at Dad anymore, not really. I mean, if I could go back and change what he did—but I can't, no matter how much I want to. And I get it, you know? I get why he did it. I'm still—I wish he hadn't, but—I forgive him, you know?"

And Sam shouldn't have known. Sam should have been incredulous; Sam should have got to his feet and yelled, "_What_!" at the top of his lungs. Not because Dean was wrong or because he didn't deserve their father's sacrifice, but because it was not _Dean_ to accept such a thing. It hurt Sam to think it, but he knew his brother. Dean could forgive his father for everything . . . everything but that.

So the alarm bells should have been ringing; red lights should have been flashing, "Warning, warning: There is something wrong with your brother." But Sam was sick and tired and sick of _being_ tired, and maybe just a little too relieved at the idea that Dean had come to some measure of peace. Sam had prayed for such a moment for almost a year now; maybe he believed the lie just because he wanted to.

"I'm glad, man," Sam said, and Dean looked up, giving that vague smile that said he wasn't really listening.

"Yeah, Sam. Me too. Now shut up for two seconds, and put that thermometer back in your mouth, see how much longer I'm gonna be stuck with your bed-ridden ass."

Sam rolled his eyes but complied, feeling very tired all of a sudden. He'd been tired a lot lately, since long before he had gotten sick. All he wanted to do was sleep . . .but Dean wouldn't let him shut down that way, and besides, dreams were no longer the refuge they had once been years ago. Blessed unconsciousness did not come without a price any longer.

The thermometer beeped and Sam looked at it. "Crap," he muttered, before Dean stomped over and snatched it away.

"103.7," Dean said, frowning. "Not so good, Sammy. Gets much higher and we might have to chance a hospital."

"No," Sam said, trying not to sound like a sulky seven year old who didn't want to go to bed. "No hospital. We can't risk it."

Dean shrugged. "Don't like the idea much myself, Sammy, but, you know. We do what we gotta do."

He sounded so solemn right then that Sam tried to sit up again to study him. He only got a head-rush for his trouble, though, and he scooted himself down in bed, trying to get his vision to not be so damn blurry. He needed to see his brother. He needed to see what was wrong.

_Maybe there's nothing wrong_, Sam thought to himself. _Maybe you're just projecting all your worries onto him._ He shifted a little under his covers, not noticing when his eyes closed. _Is that the right term? Projecting? Jess would've known. Jess . . ._

Sam felt himself start to drift off and jerked himself awake. _Don't lie to yourself, kiddo_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _This ain't the time for foolin' around._ Sam tried to focus on his brother across the room, but it was hard to even keep his eyes open. "Dean," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound too frail or too young. "Dean, we're okay, right? Everything's . .. everything's okay?"

Dean's head lifted, but Sam's vision was too blurry to see the expression on his face. "Go to sleep, Sam," Dean's voice said softly.

_No. You can't. You have to figure this out, before . . . before . . . whatever Dean's waiting for_. But Sam wasn't sure he had much choice in the matter; he was just so godamned _tired_ right now.

He felt his eyes close again as he rolled onto one side. "You'll be here," he said thickly. "When I wake up . . . righ'?"

Sam thought he heard Dean swallow, and he tried to stay awake to hear an answer, but the only one he got was from that song—

_There's danger on the edge of town_

And then he was asleep.

V.

Dean set down the gun that he had been cleaning and moved over to his bed, where he could watch Sammy sleep.

_God, this SUCKS_, he thought, and man, it really, _really_ did, because Dean was ready to do what he needed to do . . . except that it wasn't time yet. All he could do was wait. Wait, and it seemed to take forever, and every minute he spent with Sammy trying to pretend like everything was normal was another minute he wanted to spend explaining what he was gonna do. Explain what he had to do and why he had to do it and beg for his brother's forgiveness, even though he knew it wouldn't be forthcoming. Dean didn't want Sam to hate him, not the way that he sometimes, helplessly, hated his own father. Dean wanted a chance to explain.

He wanted a chance to say goodbye.

But if he did, Sam would know, and he'd do everything he could to stop him.

_You can't let that happen_, Dean told himself. _You've made your choice, remember? This is the time to follow through, and if following through means waiting, then that's what you do. You wait, and you stop letting him see your . . . whatever. Fear or regret or whatever this is. You stop letting him see it. Act NORMAL, godammit. It's the only way to save him._

He just had to wait, just a little bit longer.

He just had to wait for the New Moon.

VI.

Sam's fever started to go down a few days later, and it had completely dissipated by the end of the week. Dean started driving them west, though as far as Sam could tell, there was no particular destination in mind; they had no job lined up, and apparently no interest in getting one. Sam started doing research, but Dean refused to care about any of the possibilities that he found, even the potential banshee in New Mexico, and Dean had always wanted to hunt down a banshee.

When Sam pushed, Dean finally said, "Man, I could just use a break. We never take breaks, man; no vacations, no downtime, nothing. I'm not asking for Disney World here. Just . . . just gimme a week. Please, man. A week and I'll be fine."

_He's waiting_, Dean-In-His-Head tried to remind him, but Sam pushed the thought away. It _had_ been a long year after all. It'd been a long _couple_ of years, really, and Dean had lost so much. If he wanted a break, if he was actually _admitting_ that he needed something, for once, Sam was damn well going to give it to him.

_Everything's fine_, he told himself insistently. _Everything's FINE._

Dean-In-His-Head didn't even bother to call him a liar this time.

By Thursday, they were holed up in some crappy motel room, same damn town their Dad had died in. Sam had assumed Dean would blow right past it, just keep driving until the entire state was a distant memory, but Dean had stopped and Sam didn't have it in him to ask. Their motel room was freakishly hot, with stagnant air thick enough to cut through, so they spent the evening outside, leaning against the Impala and drinking beer under the bright, new moon.

Maybe it was the town, or the memory of their dad, or just the beer on an empty stomach, but Dean was apparently feeling nostalgic, because he started talking about old times. Sam was surprised but certainly not resistant; they talked about old hunts and crap motel rooms and weird things from their childhood, including that Christmas Dad had surprised them with _real_ presents. They usually got weapons or defensive gear or protection charms, but that year they got actual, store-bought toys. Cheap toys, but definitely toys nonetheless.

Sam still had absolutely no idea why.

Dean fetched them another round of beers and they were quiet for a little while, lost in various odd memories of childhood. Eventually, Sam's mind moved back to the present, and he watched Dean speculatively out of the corner of his eye. Since Sam had gotten better, Dean seemed different, more himself, but still . . . every now and then, Sam got a flash of something.

Something just not quite right.

"Dean," he said suddenly, "about this break—"

"It's okay," Dean said. "We can start researching tomorrow."

"We don't have to. If you need—"

"I don't," Dean said. "It's okay, Sam. Really."

It didn't _feel_ okay, though. Sam turned to look at his brother. Dean wasn't looking at him, or anywhere near him. He was looking up silently at the moon above them. _He looks so tired_, Sam thought. "Dean," he said. "I know things haven't been right—"

"Sam—"

"No, Dean, listen to me, okay? Just this once, just—listen. I know—I know something's happening to me—Dean, just shut up for a second, okay? I mean, I can feel it. I know I'm . . . changing. I don't know what I'm changing into exactly, but I _know_, okay, man? I _know_. And it's freaky, man, I mean, I'm scared as Hell sometimes, but—we'll get through it together, you know? I mean, I believe that. Things are kind of fucked up right now, but . . . I know we're going to get through this. So . . . if that's what this is, what you've been worried about or—seriously, man, shut _up_, I _know _you haven't been okay. You've been off for almost a month. You've been better at hiding it, but man, I'm your brother. I can tell. So . . . I just . . . I just wanted to say that if that's what this is, if this is what's been upsetting you, don't let it, cause we're gonna be okay. We are, Dean. I know it. I believe in that, Dean."

And Sam didn't know if he did, didn't know if he believed in their happy ending anymore, but he knew he needed Dean too. He needed Dean to believe that they'd be fine.

"You can talk now," Sam added after a minute of Dean just looking at him. But Dean didn't say anything at first, not for the longest time. He just looked at Sam, his face completely expressionless in a way Sam could never quite master.

When he spoke, his voice was calm, decided, but he had to clear his throat twice before being able to speak at all. It was the only clue Sam had that Dean was really listening, and even then, Sam couldn't really trust that Dean didn't just have a sore throat or something.

The only thing Dean said was, "I'm not scared, Sammy. I know that everything's gonna be okay."

And he said it so damn calmly that Sam began to feel a little stupid. "Okay," he said. "Well. You know. As long as you know."

Dean just smirked at him. "I know, geekboy, I know." His eyes drifted back to the moon, but only for a second. Then his attention was back on Sam. "Come on," he said. "It's got to be a little cooler in there by now. Besides, your much hotter psychic twin, Jennifer Love? Think she's coming on in about five minutes."

Sam rolled his eyes and followed him inside.

He didn't think anything about the moon.

He should have.

VII.

Dean didn't like drugging his brother, but on a few occasions he had been forced to. During those first few, terrible months after Jessica's death, Sam's insomnia got so bad that he was near useless on a hunt. Dean nearly got his head chopped off because Sam had been too sluggish, too slow. And Sam still insisted that he didn't need to sleep.

So, on occasion, Dean had put some sedatives in his brother's beer. He didn't like it, but sometimes that's what you had to do.

Tonight was one of those nights. Dean needed Sam to be out, completely out, with absolutely no chance of waking up at the worst possible moment. Dean felt a little lousy about it—but it was hardly the worst thing he'd ever done. Or, for that matter, was ever gonna do.

Sam's eyes started to close as he sank a little further into his bed. "Man," he said. "I'm beat. I—" A massive yawn emerged from his mouth and Sam sunk a little further, unconsciously curling into as small of a ball as his freakish giant body would allow. "I don't know what's wrong with me. Don't—don't remember being this _tired_."

Dean shrugged. "Well, it's been a long day. Go to sleep, man. Dream of some hot, naked, 10 feet tall chicks or something."

Even half out of it, Sam could still issue his, "God, Dean, you're such a jackass" glare. "But it hasn't been a long day," he sort of whined into his pillow. "We didn't _do_ anything."

"Well, it's been a long year, then. Shut up, Sammy, and go to sleep already."

Sam flopped onto his stomach and at first seemed to comply. Dean sat there and listened to his brother's breathing even out. Then, just as Dean started to get off the bed, Sam opened one eye and fixed it on him.

"You goin' somewhere?" he asked thickly.

Dean's mouth felt dry. "Just to the can," he said. "Why? You need a bedtime story?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Fuck you," he muttered, and then shifted under his sheets and promptly fell asleep.

Which was what Dean wanted, but . . . dammit, he couldn't leave it like that, couldn't let Sam's last words to his brother be "fuck you," because, hell, Sam was still guilty about their father. He'd never get over it; Dean knew how Sam was. So he walked over to where Sam was sleeping and shook him a little.

"Hey, Sam. Sammy. Come on, man, wake up for a minute now."

Sam opened one eye again. "Whazzit?"

"Nothing," Dean said. "Nothing. Just—just wanted you to know that while you're snoozing away over here, I'm gonna be getting to know that hot looking girl at the front desk. So, you know, while you're dreaming about huge books or whatever it is you dream about, _I'll _be—"

Sam shook his head. "Leave me out of your nighttime activities, man."

Dean smirked. "Bitch."

Sam smiled. "Jerk," he said and nodded off again, one arm curled under his pillow.

Dean stood there for awhile, watching him sleep. This was better. This was how it should have been.

"Good night, Sammy," he whispered, and then, into his ear, "I'm sorry."

VIII.

_I'm sorry_

Sam shot his head up and looked around him, trying to figure out where the hell he was and where that voice had come from. It had sounded like Dean's voice, but also not—not the confident, cocky tone he had come to either love or loathe from his brother, but something more broken, something tired and full of regret.

"Dean?" he said, but he didn't see Dean—not that there was any reason he should. The last time he had seen Dean, they had been in the motel room. Sam had been so damn tired; he had laid down, fallen asleep . . .

"I'm dreaming," he said, but that wasn't exactly right. He was too conscious, too aware. _I'm having a vision._

Sam looked around him; he was certainly no longer at the motel. It looked like he was in some cabin, somewhere; early morning sunlight was just beginning to filter through the windows. The window sills were covered in salt, protecting them from the monsters outside.

_I know those salt lines_, he thought, which sounded ridiculous, but it was true. Those lines had been there a long time. He knew it, because he had been the one to put them there.

_It's not just any cabin_, he thought. _It's THE cabin. _

And he was standing in the bedroom.

The bedroom door was shut, and as he looked at it, he could hear someone singing. _It's that song again, that damn song Dean's always got in his head._ He tried to will it away, but the song just seemed louder.

_He paid a visit to his brother and then he, he walked on down the hall._

_And he came to a door._

_And he looked inside._

Sam didn't _want_ to look inside, didn't want to open the door at all, because he knew he was going to find something bad, something he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to see. But the thing about visions was that they didn't come with an off-switch, and Sam was helpless to open the door and step through into the main room of the cabin.

In the middle of the cabin were the remnants of what looked like a summoning spell. What was summoned was standing on one side of the cabin, smiling and flashing those deep yellow eyes. On the other side of the cabin stood the person who had done the summoning.

"Dean?" Sam said hoarsely. "Dean, what the hell . . ."

Dean didn't acknowledge him, didn't so much as blink at his brother's sudden presence. "I'd make a better bad guy, anyway," he said to the Demon. "You know Sam's always doing that whiny moral thing—it is it good, is it evil, should I do it, should I not—me? I just like to kill things, and I'm damn sight better at it than my brother is."

"Dean," Sam whispered. "What are you talking about? Dean, what are you going to _do_?"

Dean glanced at a chair that was in his path, and the chair flew across the room. "_Jesus_!" Sam said, staring at Dean. "Dean, how did you—"

"You want me on your side," Dean said. "You really, _really_ do. And you can have me, turn me evil, take my soul, whatever. I won't put up a fight. But you have to let Sammy go. You have to stop turning him into whatever you're turning him into, and never go after him. You let him go."

Sam was full on hyperventilating by now, because this couldn't be the future; Dean could not be doing this for him. _Don't you know me at all, little brother, _Dean-In-His-Head said softly. _You should know by now I'd do anything to save you_

_Shut UP, _Sam thought as he ran over to Dean, but Dean just moved right through him. "You let him go," Dean said, "and I'll—"

Dean stopped moving. For a second, Sam thought he was just pausing to take a long breath or something, a dramatic moment even though Dean didn't really _do_ dramatic moments, but when he continued to say nothing, Sam moved to look at him. Dean was frozen in mid-motion, mouth still open, like he'd been put on pause.

Sam turned his head sharply to the Demon, trying to figure out how the hell he had _paused_ his brother, but the Demon was still, too, frozen in time just like Dean. There was nothing moving in the cabin. Sam couldn't even hear the wind outside anymore.

"What the hell . . ."

"Sammy." The voice came from behind him, and Sam turned around sharply to see Dean standing there.

Sam blinked and looked backwards. Yep, Dean was still there, frozen in the middle of some kind of twisted deal for Sam's soul. Sam turned back to the New Dean, the one who was still moving. "Dean, what the hell . . ."

"Don't worry about it," Dean said. His voice sounded rough, hoarse. He walked up to Sam, and Sam noticed a small, circular stone in Dean's right hand. _Obsidian_, he thought absently. _It looks like obsidian_. Not that that really mattered so much right now.

"Dean—"

"I said, don't worry about it. You just take care of yourself, okay?"

"But Dean—"

Dean didn't allow him to finish. He grabbed Sam by the arm and pushed the stone on the center of Sam's forehead, holding it there while Sam went to his knees. The pain was sudden, blinding, like fire burning through his skull.

He started to scream.

And then the world disappeared.

IX.

Dean's eyes snapped open. He was on hands and knees on the motel floor, and his head felt like it was on friggin' fire. He let the piece of obsidian slip through his fingers so he could cradle his head until the pain went away.

When he realized that _that_ wouldn't be happening anytime soon, Dean clutched at his temples until the pain at least receded to a point where he could actually see again. Once that happened, he stood up uneasily, barely keeping the nausea at bay. Tonight already sucked enough, and tossing his cookies? _So_ not going to help matters.

Dean massaged the sides of his head as he glanced over at Sam lying on the bed. Sam was still sound asleep, completely motionless; Dean had to check twice to make sure he was even breathing. That spell had _not_ gone the way Dean thought it would; Dean had never expected Sam to be _in_ a vision when he took the power. He certainly didn't expect Sam to be having that _particular _vision.

But maybe it was for the best. Sometimes you have to see something to believe it, and Dean knew Sam wouldn't believe what he was gonna do if he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes.

_It'll be the last thing you see, little brother. You'll never have visions, not ever again_

_Better make sure_, Mental Sammy said from the corner of his mind. _Wouldn't want to get all the way to the cabin just to find out that something went wonky and you got no power backing you up._

No. That wouldn't work out spectacularly well, would it?

Dean glanced down at the floor where the obsidian stone still lay. He held out his hand in the air above it and frowned as he flexed his fingers. "Come on," he said to the stone. "Come on."

At first, there was nothing, just Dean standing in a motel room, staring down at a rock and looking like an idiot. "Come on," he said again, angry now. He didn't go through almost a month of planning for absolutely nothing to happen. "Come on, you stupid, fucking rock. I did the spell, now you're going to work. Get your ass up here _now_. Come on. Come _ON_!"

And the obsidian wavered for a beat or two . . .

. . . and then flew up into his hand.

X.

Dean didn't let himself linger too long. He wanted to, God, he wanted to (_but you've made your choice_) and he couldn't afford to stay. He didn't know how long Sam would be out, and this had to be done by the time he woke up.

Still, he had to leave a note. It was sort of lame, really, a goodbye note for Chrissake, but it would have to do. It was all he had left to offer.

Dean wrote something down as quickly as he could, and then carefully placed the Impala keys next to it, smiling sadly down at them. It hurt to leave the Impala almost as much as it hurt to leave Sam, but he couldn't take her where he was going. She was better off this way.

_Sam, you better take care of her, dammit_, and he cried, just a little, before he left the room.

XI.

The cabin was only a few miles east of the motel. He had picked the place on purpose—didn't wanna have to bother with a cab all the way out here in the sticks. It shouldn't have taken that long to hike it, but he was feeling the after effects of the spell—definitely headachey and more than a little drained. It was almost dawn by the time he got there.

He set his pack down on the floor, humming "The End" as he got out everything that he needed. Few herbs, few words—it was almost ridiculously easy to summon a Demon these days. That was a good thing, though, because his pronunciation of Latin had always been this side of downright atrocious. There was a reason he let his geekboy brother do all the exorcisms, while he got to look awesome kicking down front doors.

Sammy obviously couldn't be here for this bit of ritual, but thankfully Dean knew enough Latin to get him by when he needed it. He said it quickly, no pauses, no ceremony, and when the Demon came, there was no theatrics, no flash.

"Well, Dean," the Demon said as he emerged from one corner. "Can't say I was expecting to hear from you so soon. What's the matter, boy? Got a little lonely all by yourself in the middle of the night?"

Dean smiled coldly. "I was jonesing for some company," he admitted. "Usually I like my company prettier and a little more human than you, but hey, you know, you gotta make do with what you got."

The Demon laughed. "Funny," he said. "You're a funny guy, Dean. Always had a better since of humor than your brother, that's for sure. You should have seen the fuss he was making after pretty little Jess." He shook his head sadly. "That boy wouldn't appreciate irony if it bit him in the ass."

The Demon glanced around theatrically, as if Sam might have been hiding behind some big curtain. "And where _is_ your brother?" the Demon asked with a little grin. "I've noticed the dynamic duo seems a little lacking tonight."

"Sorry," Dean said. "He couldn't make it. I'm sure he's all broken up about missing you, though."

"Well, I'm disappointed too," the Demon said. "After all, he _is_ the special one. Not like you. You're about as normal as normal can get."

Then the Demon outstretched his hand and Dean felt himself flying backwards into the wall behind him. "Of course," the Demon said as Dean's chest started to rip open. "I can settle for killing just you."

Dean swallowed, watching the blood pour down. _Don't focus on the pain, don't focus on the pain_. He didn't look at the Demon but the table that was two feet away from him. "That all you got," Dean said, and launched the table towards the Demon.

The table cracked the Demon over the head, and Dean felt the pressure lift off him immediately. He sank to his knees, one hand going to his chest. The wound hurt like hell, but didn't seem that deep.

When he could, he stood up, and looked the Demon in the eye. The Demon was staring at him, a little slack-jawed. He looked so shocked that Dean actually started to laugh.

After a minute, the Demon joined in.

"Dean," he said, almost fondly. "Somebody has been a _very_ naughty boy. How exactly _did_ you manage to do that?"

Dean sobered a little. "Doesn't matter," he said. "All that matters is this: Sam ain't the special one anymore. _I'm _the one you want. I can bend spoons or have visions or whatever it is you need me to do. Whatever you wanted Sam to do, you got me instead. Sam's worthless to you now; _he's_ the one who's normal as normal can be. You want someone to reign hell on earth? I'm the man for the job."

The Demon smiled. "Are you now?"

"You know I am," Dean said. He stepped away from the wall and closer to the Demon.

"I'd make a better bad guy, anyway. You know Sam's always doing that whiny moral thing—it is it good, is it evil, should I do it, should I not—me? I just like to kill things, and I'm damn sight better at it than my brother is."

There was a chair in his path. Dean glanced at it, and it flew across the room. "You want me on your side," he said. "You really, _really_ do. And you can have me, turn me evil, take my soul, whatever. I won't put up a fight. But you have to let Sammy go. You have to let him go and stop turning him darkside. You leave Sammy alone, and I'll do whatever you want. You leave Sammy alone . . ." Dean smiled, ". . . and I'm yours."

The Demon nodded, pursing his lips again. "It's an interesting proposition, Dean," he said thoughtfully. "But I don't know . . . I just don't know. Making deals with demons, swearing yourself to evil? I'm just not sure that Daddy would approve."

It took everything Dean had not to launch himself at the Demon, which hardly would have been productive at this stage of the game. The truth was, he didn't know how his father would have reacted. He'd like to think he'd be horrified, but . . . it had always been about Sammy. Everything, his whole life, had always been about taking care of Sammy. Dean was only doing what he'd been trained to do.

Besides, if anyone understood about making deals with devils . . . John Winchester, of all people, should understand _that_

"Dad's not here anymore," Dean said. "You should know; you saw to that. But even if he was, it wouldn't matter. I'm just doing what I have to do." He was now within arm's reach of the Demon, but he wasn't scared. He already knew how this was gonna play out. "So, we gonna talk all night, or are we going to make this deal already?"

The Demon laughed. He nodded to himself for a second, mulling it over, and then looked at Dean. "Okay," he said. "We got a deal."

Dean nodded. Then he stood there, waiting. Nothing happened, or at least, nothing he could see. "Soooo," he said. "Is that it, or is there some kind of ritual we do, or . . ."

He trailed off for a second, and then made a disgusted face. "Jeez, we don't have to kiss or anything, do we?"

The Demon laughed. "I think we can forego that part," he said. "That's more of a crossroads thing anyhow." He stepped up to Dean, one hand hovering just above Dean's forehead. "I hope you know this is gonna hurt like Hell."

Dean nodded. "I know it," he said. "I'm ready."

The Demon smiled and touched Dean's forehead, and when the darkness came, Dean didn't try to fight it.

When he felt his soul being ripped away, though . . . he couldn't keep himself from screaming.

_This is the end  
Beautiful friend__  
This is the end__  
My only friend, the end_

-TBC

A/N: Lyrics are all from "The End" by the Doors.

Review? Please? Pretty pretty pretty please? Cherries and all, I swear.


	2. The Descent to Normal

A/N: Just wanted to say a quick thanks to Faithfulcynic, Katerina17, Marvin is my Muse, Sera and Tails, Lilly B., Onari, Poaetpainter, Tempestt, JazzyIrish, Ster1, Julie, and heather03nmg for all the great reviews. This story is kind of a mammoth so I really appreciate the encouragement. This particular chapter is entirely from Sam's POV . . . but do not fear, all Deangirls. Dean will be back. Oh, and I'm hoping to get this posted a little more regularly, but, well . . . there's that whole life thing and yeah.

Summary: Desperately trying to save Sam, Dean finds a spell to steal his powers. He makes a deal with the Demon, sacrificing his soul for Sam's safety.

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine, and this is the last time I'm doing this for this story. If you suddenly become concerned about who owns what, refer to Chapter 1. This is just a hobby. Or, you know, an obsession. Whatever.

"The Descent to Normal"

I.

It wasn't sunlight that woke Sam, or some voice from deep inside him, or even some guardian angel whispering of danger and demons and Dean. Instead, one of the motel patrons, undoubtedly on some week-long bender, screeched his car into the parking lot and ran into the side of the building. The motel had shook with the impact, but that hadn't been enough to wake up Sam. It _was_ enough, however, to jostle the crappy flower painting off the wall, the one that Dean had seen and declared a "pretty piece of pink puke." The painting had landed on the pillow, about an inch or so from Sam's head.

No angels or brotherly instinct. Just some drunk guy and a painting and Sam woke up, startled, grasping the sides of his head in anticipation of pain. When it didn't come, he lowered his hands, trying to work through his confusion.

_Uh, Sam_? Dean-In-His-Head said. _The pink puke painting didn't actually hit you. Picture hit head equals ow. Picture don't hit head . . . equals no ow. Think you can keep up there, College Boy?_

"Smart ass," Sam muttered out loud. _Anyway, that's not what I meant_. He had woken up expecting his head to hurt, the way it always did after a vision. He'd _had_ a vision last night, hadn't he? He thought . . . he thought . . . but he couldn't quite remember . . .

Sam slowly sat up in bed, still half-expecting the pain to emerge (like _ha-ha, buddy, we FOOLED you_) but it never came. He definitely felt groggy, more muddled than usual by early morning standards, but there wasn't pain. He was just a little . . . something. Woozy. Different.

_But hey, no pain, so, you know. No complaints._

Dean-In-His-Head made sense. But something still felt . . . off.

Sam glanced over to look at Real Dean, but his brother's bed was empty, didn't even look like it had been slept in . . . and Dean wasn't really one for making beds. "Dean?" Sam called as he slowly stood. The bathroom looked empty. "De—"

He stopped.

_Dean in the cabin. Dean with the DEMON in the cabin. Dean saying . . . Dean saying . . . Dean offering his . . ._

"God."

Sam sunk back down to the bed, trying to remember what he had seen. Usually, he remembered his visions so clearly, but this was different; this was like trying to remember a dream, and the pieces of it kept shifting around. Quickly, he ran over to his duffel bag and grabbed one of his notebooks, writing down everything he could remember.

He'd been dreaming. . . no, he'd been having a vision . . . of Dean in the cabin with the Demon, offering his soul. _I won't put up a fight. But you have to let Sammy go. You have to stop turning him into whatever you're turning him into, and never go after him_

_God, Dean, you_—but he stopped himself before he could complete the thought. He needed to focus, dammit. He needed to remember everything he'd seen before he could help his brother. He'd been standing there watching, horrified, and then . . . then . . .

Then everything had stopped. Dean had stopped talking, the Demon stopped moving. Everything had been frozen in time. And another Dean, not the vision Dean, but the real-present time Dean had appeared behind him. He'd had a stone in his hand; it was obsidian, Sam remembered. He had noticed that right before he had his brain ripped from his skull.

_Gee_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _Good to see that your penchant for exaggeration hasn't entirely gone to waste there, Sammy. _And that was fair because obviously Sam's brain _hadn't_ been ripped from his forehead, but damn it had felt like that, like fingers ripping through his skin and pulling away a piece of him.

Sam couldn't remember what piece that was, but that didn't seem so important right now. _I have to find Dean_, he thought to himself. _I have to find Dean before he does something stupid._

_Too late_, Dean-In-His-Head said, but Sam ignored him because Dean-In-His-Head could be a real _ass_ sometimes.

_Shut up_, Sam thought and went to look out the window. The drunk guy who had crashed his car was now stumbling around waving his arms around. People were surrounding him, but none of them looked particularly concerned. Most of them were just pissed that the drunk guy had woken them up.

The cops weren't there yet, but they would be soon. Sam had to get out of there. Which was going to be difficult without . . .

The Impala. It was sitting right there.

_Dean left it behind._

_Well, of course he left it behindyou dumbass_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _What? You thought he was going to take it with him? Put a whole new meaning to Highway to Hell?_

Of course not. But still, the fact that Dean had just left behind his baby . . . it was Dean giving up his soul. In a less literal but just as haunting way.

"God," Sam said again. "God."

_God don't got shit to do with it. Look, Sam, you've got to get out of here. How are you going to save me if you're sitting in some cell? Come on, Sam, you know the drill. Get a fucking move on._

Sam unconsciously started to follow his brother's orders, as if they were real and spoken out loud. He packed up their stuff quickly, _their_ stuff because Dean had left all his behind. _I'm not leaving you behind, Dean_. He was heading for the bathroom to snag their toothbrushes when he saw the note sitting on the edge of the table.

_Maybe it's all mistake. Maybe he's just getting some . . . cheeseburgers . . . or something._

Denial was a strong force, easily shattering both reason and logic. Twenty minutes after their dad had died, Sam had been struck by the desperate feeling that it had all been some kind of error, some kind of twisted blunder. Never mind the fact that Sam had _seen_ the body on the floor; Sam knew there had to be some royal screw-up, because his dad couldn't be dead. It was just . . . it was unthinkable. He had just passed out and was breathing shallowly or something, or he was pretending to be dead to fool the Demon somehow, or maybe he had even come down with a very sudden, spontaneous case of intense narcolepsy, but his Dad wasn't _dead. _That just wasn't possible.

Except it was, and Sam knew it, just like he knew that Dean hadn't gone for cheeseburgers and a fucking milkshake. _You don't got time for this denial BS right now. Get your stuff and get the hell out of here._

But Sam couldn't do that, not without reading the note. He crossed the room and picked it up, not surprised to see one of his hands trembling minutely. "Sam," he read quietly to himself.

_Sam,_

_So you're probably pretty pissed at me. Yeah, I get that, I do. I'd probably be pissed at me too, taking off like this and doing what I'm doing, but the thing is, I'm playing the older brother card, and that means two things. One, I'm always right—older brothers always are—and two, I got to look out for you. So that's what I'm doing, Sammy. I'm looking out for you._

_This ain't how I wanted things to turn out, man, but it's the way they did so—I'm okay with it, Sam, really. I'm okay with it as long as you're all right, as long as you're safe. And you'll be safe, man, I've taken care of it. You don't got to worry anymore, not about the Demon or about your visions or even the occasional bending of spoons. It's all gone, Sam, all of it. You're normal as normal can be. _

_So you enjoy it, man. You've been bitching about normal for years, and now you've finally got it so I want you to enjoy it. Don't know if Stanford is still an option—you're gonna have to play it safe for at least a little while, but I figure you can fake some transcripts or whatever and you could still go to school somewhere. You got to change your name, of course, but I wouldn't worry too much about that. Nothing good's ever happened to a Winchester, anyway. May I suggest . . . Francis?_

_So, you know, go do your normal thing. Find a place to live, be a lawyer or something pansy like that. Find some girl that's way out of your league, get her drunk, and marry her—I mean it, Sam, don't be tied to Jessica forever. You told me once she wouldn't want that. And hey, on the off chance you actually have some good looking boys, you can name 'em after me. Watch out, though. They'll be handsome little devils, and they're going to get into all KINDS of trouble._

_You just be happy, Sam. Wherever you are, just be happy._

_And if you ever see me again, you shoot me in the heart. I won't be your brother, not anymore._

_I love you, Sammy._

Sam read the letter, then read it again, and by the time he had put it down, _both_ of his hands were shaking. He could hear sirens wailing closer, but he just couldn't move, not then, not for the longest time. _He did it for you_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _He did it so you could have your precious normal life._

_This is your fault. He did it for you. He did it for you. He—_

No.

Sam picked the note back up and crammed it into his pocket. "Fuck that, Dean," he said. "Fuck it. I'm not letting this happen." He finished packing his bags and headed out to the Impala, stepping over the drunk guy who had passed out on the curb.

Once in the car, he sat in the driver's seat, and held his hands on the wheel. "I'm going to save you, Dean. I'm going to save you."

Then he turned on the ignition, and let AC/DC blast out the Dean-In-His-Head whispering _liar, liar._

_You're too late._

II.

He wanted to go straight to the cabin. He wanted to drive 100 miles an hour, crash straight through the cabin wall, and pull Dean out before he could do anything stupid. He could run over the Demon a couple of times, just for good measure, just to be on the safe side. Sam just needed to _get_ there, and get there _now_

Problem was they were on E. And unless Sam wanted to walk, he had to stop at the gas station first.

Eliciting a string of curses long and varied enough to make his brother proud, Sam drove the car over to the local Chevron station and stormed inside. He barely glanced at the kid behind the counter before throwing a twenty down and turning around.

He was in the middle of stalking out when he heard, "Dude," from behind him. Sam turned to look at the gas station attendant. He couldn't have been more that twenty, sweaty, shaky, and obviously hopped up on something. "You okay, man?"

_Jeez, Sam. When the TWEAKERS notice that you look like shit . . ._

_Shut up. _"I'm fine," Sam said shortly.

"You sure, man? Cause, dude, you look strung _out_. I could hook you up with something, you know. Help you chill out, help you _relax_."

"Yeah." Sam raised an eyebrow at the kid's hands, fingers twitching violently against the glass counter. "Cause you look _so_ relaxed right now. Thanks, man, but I think I'll pass."

He rolled his eyes and was starting to turn when the kid cursed and scrambled over the counter. "Hey," the kid said. "Hey, fuck you, man. You don't know nuthin bout me. You don't know nuthin."

Sam just ignored him. His moved back towards the door and the kid's hand grabbed him from behind, shaking fingers clenching into his right shoulder. "Hey," the kid said again. "Don't you fuckin walk away from me. I'm talking to you, dammit. You don't just walk away."

Sam turned slowly and glared at him. "Kid," he said, as clearly and slowly as he could. "I do _not_ have time for this. So take your hand off of my shoulder and _back off_. Right now."

Despite Dean's claims that Sam had the most innocent "pinchable-aw-shucks-aren't-I-so-sweet-little-lost-puppy-dog" face ever, Sam knew that he could look dangerous when he wanted to. He didn't let most people see it, had to hide it for the four years that he was away (and Jessica had only seen it once, and she had been scared; Sam hated that she had been scared) but he knew that if he wanted to, he could let it all come out. The darkness he had known, he could share it with just a look.

A look that said, _I've seen things that you didn't even know you had to fear_

A look that said, quite clearly, _Don't fuck with me. I've got better things to do_

Sam usually let Dean give that look. But Dean wasn't here right now, and Sam didn't have _time _for this. So he glared at the kid for all his worth, a silent warning to let him be.

The kid was stupider than he was high. His grip only tightened into Sam's shoulder.

"Don't call me kid," the kid said obnoxiously, his voice wavering in and out as though he were 12 years old. "You think you're so old, man? You think you're so _tough_?"

_Oh, for Chrissake_, Dean-In-His-Head said loudly. _Just knock him unconscious and be DONE with this._

God, it was a tempting thought, but Sam really didn't want to get into a fight if he didn't have to. Not that he couldn't take the kid, hell, it'd probably only take one off-hand punch, but Sam didn't trust himself right now. He felt like he was shaking from the inside out. It might start with one punch, but Sam didn't think it would end there, not with this ominous buzzing in his head and this tightness in his gut.

_And you know why, yeah, you know why. Because look outside, at the sun. It's too late, Dean's---_

No.

Sam shoved the guy off a fraction harder than he needed to and headed for the front door again, determined to get out of here. This kid was _wasting_ his _timeDean's_ time, godammit, and nothing sounded sweeter than just kicking the crap out of him.

_Watch it there, tiger, you're starting to sound like me_, Dean-In-His-Head thought, and Sam thought back to him, _Well, there are worse things to sound like._

Sam had his hand on the door when he felt the kid launch into him, slamming his head into the side of the wall. "Fuck you," the kid shrieked, trying to pull Sam up so he could knock him down again. "Fuck you, _fuck you_! Like you've even got problems—"

And that whole seeing red thing? It wasn't exactly red. It wasn't exactly seeing. It was just fury and a jump in time.

When Sam came back to himself, the kid was on the floor, writhing in a fetal position, his bruised, bleeding cheek pinned under Sam's boot.

Sam couldn't breathe, not for a good minute. _You're changing_, he tried to tell himself. _You're changing, remember? It's not you. It's not you_. But that wasn't what this was. He wasn't changing, not anymore.

He could blame the Demon for a lot in his life, but this (_broken nose, broken bones, tears like blood running down his cheeks)_, this?

This was all on Sam. Kicking the shit out of this kid was all his doing.

Because there hadn't been anything controlling Sam, just rage fueled by grief. Human grief, a brother's grief, because he knew he was already too late.

He'd known, known before he'd walked in here, known before he even left the motel. He'd known, but he hadn't wanted to know, so he refused it, pushed it back.

_Look outside, at the sun. Look at the position of the sun._

It was late in the morning, pushing noon, and the deal had been made just after sunup.

Dean had traded his life, his freedom, his _soul_ away . . . and Sam had just slept, slept right on through it.

_There's nothing you can do. You're too late. You never had a chance._

He'd find nothing at that cabin, except maybe blood.

Sam pulled away from the kid, who was still whimpering on the ground, saying things like "don't" and "please" and other whispered prayers of mercy. Sam walked backwards out of the gas station, staring as the kid just laid there twitching, and then finally remembered to look around (_check your surroundings, Sammy, you have to check your surroundings_). Someone could have seen him. Someone could have seen what he had done.

_Christ. Christ, Dean, Christ. Look what happened, look what I—_

There was no one there. Sam turned and ran towards the Impala, wanting to slide in and just drive the hell away.

Never look back. Just drive like a bat out of hell and pretend that he hadn't almost killed some 20 year old kid.

_Of course, there's just one little, teensie-weensie problem with that_, Dean-In-His-Head reminded him.

Sam looked at the reading on his gas gauge. It was still on E. _Next time, you might want to try beating up the kid AFTER you've already pumped the gas into the car_, Dean-In-His-Head said._ Now you know what you gotta do. Unless you plan on hanging here for the cops, of course._

No. No, he couldn't do that. He had to get to Dean. He'd have to get out of the car, pump the gas . . . _just pumping some gas after beating the shit out of some kid._

_It's all gone, Sam, all of it. You're normal as normal can be._

Sam stared numbly at his bloody knuckles and then, slowly, started to laugh.

III.

It had taken a few minutes for Sam to pump gas into the Impala, and by the time he was done, the kid was still lying in a heap inside the station. Sam almost went to go check on him, but then thought better of it. He had to get to the cabin, even though he knew what he would find.

He still had to go. He didn't have any other choice.

So he went. Drove like the devil to get there, drove in a way that would have made Dean protest (_"Be careful, Sammy, Jesus. You got to take care of your girl, or she won't take care of you."_) and what did he find? Nothing. The cabin was empty.

Dean wasn't there.

The Demon wasn't either, but he had been there; that was clear enough. Remnants of Dean's summoning spell were still cast upon the floor. That was the thing, about summoning demons; after you did it, you had bigger things on your mind than cleaning up candle wax. The air was thick too; Sam felt like he was choking down the sulfur, and he might have escaped for a gulp of fresh air if he hadn't seen Dean's necklace lying in the middle of the floor.

Sam knelt down and picked up the necklace, holding it in one palm to stare at it. "He's had this for years," Sam said softly to himself, almost unaware that he had even spoken at all. "He's had this forever, ever since we were kids."

Sam had no idea where Dean had gotten the necklace, or why it was so important to him, what it was for, what it did. He had come up with a number of theories, of course, but he had never asked the question, because somehow he knew Dean wouldn't give him an answer. Not a straight one, anyway, not something without a joke, and Sam got tired of Dean's jokes sometimes, when he just wanted Dean to be honest and open for once. No, Sam didn't know what the necklace meant to Dean. He only knew what the necklace meant to Sam.

_Dean_, he thought as he threaded the chain between his fingers. _It's just supposed to mean Dean_

But Dean wasn't here. Dean had given up his soul . . . and he was gone.

Gone for good.

_No_, Sam thought, _no. I'm not letting that happen._ He could find Dean, he would. He just needed some help. This was—God, this was too much. Dean had . . . Dean had _turned_ for him, for Chrissake (_And if you ever see me again, you shoot me in the heart. I won't be your brother, not anymore_) and, "_Fuck_ that, Dean. I just have to think. There's a way, I can do this, I just have to _think_—"

_Okay, Sammy_, Dean-In-His-Head said blithely. _You want me to lay out the situation for you? Okay, here we go: I'm EVIL now, you dumbass. I found some spell, some voodoo-hoodoo mumbo, and I took your powers and sold my soul. Or something, fuck, man, I don't know the technicalities, but it's not like they matter. Point is, I'm EVIL, okay, and there ain't no reversing that. Whatever this is, it's not a possession. You can't exorcise what's been done. You can't CHANGE what's been done._

"I can," Sam said desperately. "I have to. I just . . . I just don't know how. I just need some help . . ."

_And exactly who were you thinking to ask? God? Yeah, he's always been on our side. Maybe he'll send down an angel or two to come smite my ass; good thinking, bro; that'll help me out a lot. There's NOBODY to help you, Sammy, not with something like this. Dad's dead, Jim's dead . . . do I really need to go down the list? It goes a lot like this: dead, dead, dead, and more dead. I told you before, man, hunting's a dangerous gig, and those who are lucky enough to still be alive sure as hell aren't going to help you save me._

"Ellen . . ."

_Man, we don't even know Ellen, and from what I've been able to tell? Not exactly a fuzzy wuzzy, soft-spot-for-sob-stories kind of woman. She'd probably pat you on the shoulder, get you a beer, and tell you I'm gone. And Jo? Probably not looking to help you after you nearly killed her that one time. For that matter, Ellen might not be happy to see you either, after that. So, who does that leave us? Bobby?_

"Bobby," Sam said suddenly. "Bobby will help us. He's . . . he's always been a good friend . . ."

_A good friend, Sammy, not a suicidal one. Bobby isn't gonna have any answers, man, except the obvious one. Look, I get you don't want to face this, Sam, but you've got to understand, it's done, Sam. It's over. There's nothing you can do for me now._

"That's not true," Sam snapped, unconsciously squeezing Dean's necklace tighter. "That's not true, godammit. I'm not going to lose you, Dean."

But Dean-In-His-Head was right . . . about Bobby at least, and about the others. Nobody else would understand this. They'd say that Dean was the hunt now.

Dean would never be the hunt. Sam was just going to have to do this on his own.

_I just have to find a trail_, Sam thought. _Dean, please still be in there enough to give me something to go on_

Sam stood up and slipped the necklace over his head. He'd find something. He'd find a way.

He had to.

IV.

There was no way.

Sam stared dully at the countertop, fingers tightening around the empty shot glass in his hand. He was in a bar somewhere, though he couldn't say which one; he had no real memory of driving here, just walking in the front door with a thirst for unconsciousness that he couldn't describe, not with words anyway. There were no words, not for this.

There hadn't been a trail. There hadn't been _anything_

Sam had spent hours at the cabin, looking for some sign, some _something_, but all he had was Dean's necklace—no footprints, no tire tracks, as if Dean had just snapped his fingers and disappeared. And hey, maybe he could do that now—Sam had never fully given in to the "darkside", so how the hell would he know?

Either way, it didn't matter. Dean was gone, and Sam had no way of tracking him.

He'd called his brother's phone and left messages till he was blue in the face. He'd torn through his dad's journal, looking for some kind of spell to pinpoint Dean's location. He'd even prayed, for what good that did him, not just to God but any god he could think of. Hell, why not? They'd faced demons of every religion—was it so impossible to think that they could find some merciful spirit for a change?

But in the end, there was nothing. No miracles, no trails, no clue.

"Can I refill that shot, darlin'?"

Sam glanced up from the counter. A woman in her early fifties was standing before him, dark hair, no-nonsense attitude. Looked kind of like Ellen, to tell the truth. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Make it a double." He hoped she wasn't the kind to ask questions.

The Ellen-Look-A-Like wasn't. She poured his shot and moved away, leaving him to stare at it for a long minute before throwing the whiskey back. It burned going down, making him grimace, almost gag, because he had never cared for whiskey, never cared for any kind of hard alcohol, really. Whiskey had been his father's drink. That, of course, had made it _Dean_'s drink.

Now it was his drink. Because, like it or not, he was the only Winchester left.

The only one with a soul, anyway.

Sam ordered another shot and wondered if Dean actually liked the taste of whiskey. It'd be just like him, really, to drink something he hated just so Dad would approve of him. God, his fucking Dad with all his fucking marine bullshit, Dean and his fucking need to impress him, to be the good son. God_damn_ Dean and his need to protect everyone—godamn his father for encouraging it.

Sam didn't know who he was more pissed at, just that he _was _pissed. He was so pissed he couldn't see straight, so pissed he wanted to find something and kick it, till it felt just as shitty as he did. He wanted to find something and _kill_ it, just as an outlet for all this rage and guilt and self-loathing.

He wanted to kill something, anything . . . but he wouldn't, because he wasn't changing anymore. Not into anything demonic, at any rate, not until a cold-blooded killer murdering at will. Maybe he _had_ changed over the last couple of years, but that was only to be expected when your girlfriend and father and mother were all murdered by the same thing. The changes he had felt over the last few months, the _descent_ that he'd been making into something sub-human, that had all ended now. He was normal as normal could be.

Except, of course, he really wasn't, and he was still falling, just to somewhere else. Just to a different depth of darkness.

One that he'd have to face alone.

_Dean's gone_, Dean-In-His-Head said, and Sam nodded because it was true.

_Dean's gone._

_Dean's gone._

Sam ordered another shot.

TBC

A/N: Reviews are merciful, helpful, and appreciated ; )


	3. Out of Square One

A/N: I tried desperately to get this chapter up before I went camping. I failed. Sorry. I'd like to say I'll be more regular about updating, but, you know, life. I appreciate all the great reviews, though. They really do help with the whole motivation thing.

THEN: Dean performed a spell to steal Sam's psychic powers and made a deal with the Demon, offering his soul for Sam's safety. Sam tried to find him, only to discover that there was absolutely no trail for him to follow.

NOW . . .

I.

That first week, Sam did nothing but drown himself in booze and desperately try not to dream.

The second part of that venture was not as successful as the first. While Sam had the drinking down, down to a godamned _art_ (getting drunk, getting drunker, passing out, waking up, waking up drunk, getting drunker, passing out . . .) the dreams never really went away, just receded to the point where he could manage them with just a little more help from Jack. But they were still there, in the corners of his mind, flashes of Dean and blood and sacrifice

_and you're kind of missing the whole point here, Sammy. I didn't do this so you could turn into Dad, man_

but Dean-In-His-Head was too painful to listen to, so he blocked that out too. He let himself drown, hoping to sink to a place where memory couldn't haunt him, where guilt couldn't follow. A place where he could just _sleep_ for once.

But even without the psychic touch, Sam Winchester and sleep had never been on the best of terms. And Dean-In-His-Head didn't like to be silenced, would find a way to break through this veil of whiskey and grief.

"Not listnin' to you," Sam slurred in the empty motel room, stumbling one foot over the other, half-empty bottle dangling precariously in one hand. " 'M Not listnin', don't gotta listen. You're gone, man, gone . . . don't gotta, I don't gotta . . ."

Sam staggered his way into the bathroom, tripping over a towel and falling hard on his knees. He never felt it. "Not listnin," he said. "Not listnin', I won't."

_I'm sorry, Sammy_—and Sam closed his eyes.

_I'm sorry, Sammy, but you will. You'll listen, whether you want to or not._

II.

He was standing in the middle of the road with nothing on but jeans and a T-shirt. He'd had shoes on at some point, he was sure, but he couldn't remember now, not what he had done with them, or for that matter, where he was. Maybe that should have bothered him, not knowing where he was, but it seemed much more important that his feet were cold. He needed to find socks. He'd feel better if he had socks.

_Maybe I left them in the motel_, he thought.

Sam turned around, and sure enough, there was the motel. He walked towards it, hoping that just for once there were some clean socks to be had, although he kind of doubted it. Laundry and Dean did not exactly see eye-to-eye. He stepped into the motel room, calling out his brother's name. Once he found something to wear, they could go get a burger. A burger sounded good.

Dean didn't answer when Sam called; there was no trace of him in the motel room. All that was left was a note saying _goodbye_. Sam ripped it to shreds and threw it away.

If you didn't see it, it didn't exist. There was no note, so Dean was still okay.

Sam still had to find shoes, though, and he went into the bathroom, thinking they might be there. They weren't . . . but something else was.

Dean. He was trapped in the mirror.

Sam immediately went up to it, placing his hands on the glass. Dean was there. He could see him; he just couldn't reach him. "Dean!" he yelled, unsure if Dean could hear him. "Dean, Dean, don't worry, man. I'm going to get you out of there."

Dean just shrugged at him, like being stuck in a mirror was a normal, everyday thing. Which . . . no . . . not even in _their_ screwed-up, psychotic, totally freaky world was it okay to be stuck in a damn _mirror_. "It's too late," Dean said calmly. "It's too late for that, and you know it."

"The hell I do," Sam snapped. "Dean, I'm _going _to get you out of there."

Dean rolled his eyes, like _Yeah, okay, Sammy. You go ahead and do that_. Then he wrinkled his nose and made a gagging noise from the back of his throat. "Jesus, Sammy, what the hell have you been drinking? What, did you fall in, like, a vat of JD or something?"

Sam hunched his shoulder defensively. "I had to get clean," he said and gestured to the bathtub behind him. It was close to overflowing, but with whiskey, not with water. Rubber duckies floated on top, threatening to capsize at any moment. "You don't understand, Dean. I had to. I had to get clean."

Dean shook his head. "You're not getting clean," he said. "You're just getting lost, Sammy."

Which was true and Sam knew it, but it was really _not_ the bigger problem right now. "Dean, we can talk about this later," he said. "If you hadn't noticed, you're kind of stuck in a _mirror_, okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes, which meant, _Jeez, dude, you never listen_. "I _told_ you, it's too late for that. Haven't you been listening to the radio?"

And dammit, Sam had forgotten about the radio. He could hear it playing now, softly from the other room. _The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on._ "No," Sam said, shaking his head. "No, Dean, you aren't a killer. I'm going to save you, okay? I just got to get you out of there."

He studied the glass for a minute, looking for imperfections, some kind of fracture or tell. In the end, it was so simple he didn't know why he hadn't thought of it at once. "Dean," he said. "All I have to do is break the glass. If I break the glass, I can free you. You'll be okay."

Dean shook his head. "Sammy," he warned. "Sammy, man, you don't want to be doing that. You don't know what will happen."

"I know what will happen," Sam said. "I'm going to save you for once."

"No, Sam, you won't," Dean whispered, but Sam wouldn't listen.

"Step back!" Sam warned and smashed his fists into the glass. It shattered instantly, and blood poured into the sink, but it wasn't Sam's. None of Sam's skin was cut.

"Oh, Christ," Sam whispered. "Dean. Dean!" He frantically brushed aside shards of glass, trying to find his brother in the inky void where the mirror had been, but there was only darkness, darkness and blood, and Sam thought ole Jim Morrison might have been right . . . maybe this was the end.

"Dean," Sam choked, his throat threatening to close in on itself. "Dean, please, please, _Dean_."

"It's okay," a voice said dully from behind him. "It's not mine."

Sam turned around sharply. Dean was there, sitting at the edge of the bathtub and staring at nothing in particularly. He looked old; he looked broken. Sam didn't care about any of that. "Dean!" he said, so relieved he sank to his knees. "Dean! God, Dean, you're—you're okay."

Dean laughed bitterly. "Is that what I am," he said. He shook his head and smiled a little, although the smile looked wrong; too sharp, somehow, like something feral, ready to attack at any given moment.

And Sam didn't like that—that smiled made him nervous. "Dean?" he asked. "Dean, are you hurt? Did . . . did I hurt you?"

Dean's smile grew. "Did I hurt you, he asks," Dean said to the ceiling. "Christ, Sammy, I didn't know I raised you to be so godamned _funny_." He spread his hands to the side, and Sam saw that they were dripping blood.

"Shit, you _are_ hurt," Sam said, but when he tried to touch Dean, Dean shoved him away roughly.

"I _told_ you, I keep _telling_ you, and you just don't fucking _listen_. It's not mine, Sam; it's not _mine_. None of it's mine, and I don't want _any_ of it." Dean rubbed one hand through his hair, and Sam winced a little at the red that was left behind. "I hurt them, Sam. I hurt them, and you're just . . . you're just . . ." He looked down at the bath of whiskey. "I did this for you, Sam. I did it for _you_."

"I didn't want you too—''

"Well, that's too fucking bad! I did it anyway. I did it, and now there's this blood, there's blood everywhere, and it's not supposed to be on my godamned hands, Sam. I'm not supposed to be the evil one. This isn't supposed to be _mine_!"

And Sam knew that, he knew, but he didn't know what to do about it. "God, Dean," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm so—I'm sorry."

"You're _sorry_?" Dean was up and on his feet faster than Sam could blink. He grabbed Sam by the arms and flung him against the wall. Sam felt his head crack against the shower tile and he slipped, falling gracelessly into the bath of booze beneath him. Dean stood above him, glaring down, hands flexing to the beat of Jim Morrison chanting.

_Kill . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill . . ._

"I didn't do this so you would be _sorry_, Sam. I didn't do this so you would turn into me. I did this so you would live. You're supposed to be living, and _this_ is what you're doing?"

Sam reflexively swallowed, feeling the tears sting behind his eyes. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispered. "Dean, I can't, I can't—I'm _sorry_."

And apparently the radio was on some kind of loop because Jim was still chanting as Dean shook his head. _Kill . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill . . ._ as Dean went to his knees and shoved Sam's head under the surface of whiskey.

"You're not worth the sacrifice," Dean said, and Sam heard _this is the end_ before his body succumbed to the darkness below.

III.

Sam came to himself gasping on the bathroom floor, at first confused, still trapped within his nightmare. He looked around wildly for Dean, fists up to defend himself, before he remembered that Dean wasn't here.

_Dean's gone, Sammy. Dean's gone, and you're only drowning in booze in the metaphorical sense_

Sam got to his knees with a groan, his hands going to his head. He had only the vaguest memories of last night, only vague memories of the past week, really. He _did_ remember passing out after his stomach had angrily ex-nayed the suggestion of half a bottle of Jack straight down the hatch.

And speaking of the porcelain god . . .

Sam lunged for the toilet and threw up.

IV.

There was a picture of Dean and Sam from Christmastime years ago, that one, special Christmas where they had actually gotten real gifts. Sam had been seven at the time, and he had gotten three of the four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dolls—albeit, armless TMNT dolls, but that didn't really bother Sam. Warriors lost arms and legs in battles all the time. These ones had just proved their battle-worthiness.

In the picture, Sam was sneaking up on Dean with his Armless Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles of Death, and Dean was reclining on the couch, reading a book and oblivious to his imminent demise.

Or so it looked in the picture, anyway. In reality, Sam had come in for his surprise attack, and Dean had attacked him first, assailing him with pillows before Sam even knew what was happening. The book lay behind them, long forgotten. Every time Sam looked at the picture, he had to wonder what it was. Dean just wasn't a book-loving kind of guy.

Sam looked at the picture now, one in a handful of a very strange childhood, and closed his eyes at the memory of it. _I'm sorry, Dean_, he thought to himself. _I know that doesn't help, but . . .God, Dean, I'm sorry._

Sam opened his eyes slowly and set the picture down, squinting out the window at the bright, afternoon sun. After deciding that sleep was a bad idea (and drinking, by far, a worse idea still), Sam had taken a few hours to throw himself in the shower, swallow a chockfull of aspirin, and attempt to muddle through his hangover. By the afternoon, he felt quite accomplished in relearning how to think, but he knew it would be awhile before he was ready for anything resembling food.

The first order of business had been figuring out where the hell he was. The town, sure, but more importantly the state . . . Sam wasn't even sure, at this point, what side of the country he was on. He figured out that he was in Iowa, in some city called Sutherland, that, shockingly enough, he'd never been to before.

And that was good to know, but it didn't help him figure out where the hell _Dean_ was.

And that put him back in square one all over again.

Sam went through the options in his head, options that he knew he'd already been over a million times. Couldn't count on Jo, couldn't trust Ellen, and couldn't trust Ash not to tell Ellen. God, he wished he could, wished he could rely on him, because if anyone could track Dean, well, it was the mullet man from MIT, but Ash wasn't exactly a closed lip kind of guy, and Sam didn't trust him with a secret.

Once again, he lingered longer on the prospect of calling Bobby, actually picked up the phone a couple of times to dial in the first few digits, but hung up before he ever completed them. Bobby was a friend, a good friend, and Sam could desperately use his help—but as much as he wanted a friend right now, he wanted an enemy even less. And if Bobby decided that Dean was in need of a good bullet to the back of the head . . . that's just what Bobby would become.

So Sam was on his own, and it was a lousy position to be in. He couldn't just pick up with his life the way Dean had wanted him to, (_you should_) but he couldn't, he wouldn't accept that, and simultaneously he couldn't hunt for Dean, not without a trail to follow. Square one, square one, and this was what had led him drink in the first place, but right now even the _idea_ of alcohol made Sam feel nauseous. So he didn't even have that, not anymore.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam asked quietly, but Dean-In-His-Head didn't answer, and the empty room didn't either. No family, no friends, no liquid comfort . . . pretty much all he had to fall back on was prayer.

_That_, of course, woke Dean-In-His-Head up.

_Dude, you're gonna PRAY?_ he asked incredulously. _THAT's your big solution for this complete and utter fuck up? Let me tell you, Sammy, there ain't any God up there, and if there is, he sure as hell ain't watching out for us down here. If the Winchesters ever had an angel, he burned in the fire with Mom. You're alone, man. For Chrissake, just learn how to DEAL with it, already._

But that was whole problem, of course. Sam _couldn't_ deal with it, couldn't accept the fact that he was alone.

So he closed his eyes and prayed, to anything that would listen.

V.

Sam took off in the morning, driving nowhere in particular, just knowing that he couldn't stay there, not in the same place with the same walls and the same problems. At least when he drove, he had the illusion that he was _doing_ something, that there was a way out of this, that he was_ going_ somewhere. It was easier, somehow, to pretend that all of this could somehow turn out well.

He wondered if it was the same for Dean. If Dean only liked to drive because it was the one time in their mad-cap lives that he could actually imagine a happy ending for them.

_No, Sammy_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _I always believed in an end. But as long as you were safe, Sammy . . . that's all that mattered. That's all that ever mattered._

"Not to me, Dean," Sam whispered. "It's not a happy ending if I'm the only one who gets it."

Driving was comforting in its own way, but it was also painful, painful without Dean there riding shotgun, painful without Dean bitching about Sammy's lack of finesse behind the wheel. _Come on, Sammy, dead GRANDMOTHERS drive faster than this_ or _Jesus, Sammy, I know the tortoise wins in the end, but aren't we taking this a little too far?_ Sam could replay the arguments in his mind, could remind a Dean that wasn't there that speed limits weren't more like guidelines than actual rules, and furthermore they were _never_ watching Pirates of the Caribbean again, but it wasn't the same. Dean-In-His-Head just wasn't _Dean_, and Sam couldn't really pretend that he was.

But the silence was hard too, so Sam flipped on the radio, at first seeking music that _he_ liked for once. _Take advantage of it, right, listen to something from this DECADE for once, something from somebody not coiffing a freaking mullet.No big brother to complain, no driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole BS rules. Nobody in the shotgun now. It's your call, your choice. Your car._

Sam fiddled with the stations until he found one playing The Shins and left it there, content to listen to something without twenty minute long guitar solos or lyrics he had heard a million . . . freaking . . . times.

_This is good_, Sam thought. _I can do this._

Two minutes later, he flipped the radio off.

It was just a little too much like sacrilege.

VI.

Sam drove for hours on end, only stopping when the Impala threatened to run out of gas, or when he desperately needed a little boys' room break. These stops were as quick as he could possibly make them, and then he was back on the road, driving towards something, some answer, some solution. Every now and then his mind would wander towards the inevitable (_What are you doing, Sam? Where are you going_) and he'd pull his mind back to the open road, letting the emptiness of the highway blank out all his thoughts. He couldn't think about what he was doing. He just had to _go_

So it was only when he crossed the Kansas border that he realized he had been going somewhere all along.

Sam actually stopped the car in the middle of the road, resulting in a near fender bender and quite a few middle fingers and suggestions on who he could fuck and who his mother was. Sam ignored them all and pulled over, trying to let his suddenly thudding heart beat at a pace slightly more normal.

He was going home.

Sam didn't _want_ to go home. He had dealt with a lot of shit in the last couple of weeks, a lot of shit for the last few _years_, actually, and Sam was tired of it, dammit. Sam didn't want to go back to Lawrence unless it would somehow miraculously help him figure out where Dean was. Since _that_ wasn't going to happen, there was no reason to visit a home he had never known and look at a life that was never his to live.

There was no _reason_ for putting himself through that, no reason except . . .

He owed it them. He owed to his mother and he owed to his father, to go to their resting place and explain why Dean was never going to make it there himself. Why Dean was lost. How it was Sam's fault.

He _owed_ that much to them, at least.

So Sam pulled back on the road and started to driving, vowing not to stop until he made it back to Lawrence. When it got late, he put the radio back on, blasting music to keep himself awake. He needed to get to Lawrence, and anyway, he wasn't quite ready to face his nightmares, not just yet.

He must have landed on an old country station, because Johnny Cash came on, singing, "Green, Green Grass of Home."

_The old home town looks the same,  
As I step down from the train,  
And there to meet me is my mama and my papa.  
Down the road I look, and there comes Mary,  
Hair of gold and lips like cherries.  
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home._

Sam flipped off the radio.

VII.

He reached the cemetery about four in the morning, which was good because it meant that nobody else was there. Cemeteries were awkward places to be when you were surrounded by other people trying to mourn their loved ones. You never knew whether you should meet their eyes, commiserate in being the ones left behind, or ignore them entirely. No matter what you did, you felt wrong. It was hard to feel right in a place frequented by the dead.

Sam was used to cemeteries, but he'd never liked them. They didn't hold closure for him, just another place to get burned.

He wandered around for a few minutes, not ready to get where he needed to go. Headstones surrounded him, full of lines about love, lines about loss. _Devoted son_, they said. _Good son. Loving brother._

_Gone too soon_, they said. _Dearly missed. Rest in peace._

Sam felt his eyes sting and wiped away tears before they could fall. He made his way over to his mother's grave, sitting on the cold ground to the right of it. He touched the cord around his neck, and thought of the dog tags that lay beneath the dirt. Maybe he should bury Dean's necklace with the dog tags, give his own _rest in peace, Dean, I'll never forget you_, but dammit that was too much like giving up, and he wasn't giving up.

He didn't know what he was doing, but it wasn't that.

Instead, Sam put one hand to his mother's headstone and closed his eyes, bowing his head just slightly. "Mom," he said, "Dad, I'm—I'm sorry. I know, I know I've been saying that a lot lately, and I _know_ how useless it is, but . . . I don't know what else to say. I don't know what else to do."

He shook his head, and drew his knees up to his chest, one hand still playing with the cord around his neck. "I tried to get him to come here, before. Before this all happened, I, I wanted him to be able to say goodbye, to let go some of that . . . some of that guilt, I guess. I thought I still had time, you know, thought he'd come around eventually, but time runs out." He smiled sadly. "I guess we all know that."

"Mom, I'm sorry about what happened, and I'm sorry that you died trying to save me, and I'm sorry Dean lived his whole life believing that it was _his_ job to save me, but . . . I want you to know, I want you and Dad both to know, that you died saving me, and Dad died saving Dean, but I won't, I _won't_ let Dean die to save _me_. I'm just, I'm not going to let it happen. And I don't know how I'm going to stop it, but . . . I will stop it. I am _going_ to get my brother back."

Sam let go of the headstone, but didn't move, didn't open his eyes for a long time. Seconds passed into minutes passed into fractions of long hours, and when he heard footsteps behind him, he wasn't surprised, even though he wasn't psychic anymore.

"Oh, honey," the woman said from behind him. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry."

And Dean would have made some kind of wisecrack; Dean would never have fallen apart at the sound of a soothing, woman's voice. Dean would have, at the very least, made some kind of lame joke to break the ice, something like _and you call yourself a psychic. Woman, I've been sitting around here for hours._

Dean would have said something like that, but he wasn't Dean; he was Sam. So he turned around and Missouri stretched out her arms and Sam fell into them like a child who had finally found his way home.

VIII.

Missouri fixed him tea back at her place, and he drank it even though he never particularly liked tea. He was used to being offered something to drink, though, something like tea or lemonade, a civilized drink that people sipped because that's what you did when you were talking. Never mind the fact that Sam was usually talking to these people about dead bodies or ghosts in the attic; you sat there and calmly sipped tea while asking the widow whether her husband had been missing any internal organs when he was found.

Normal had a way of sneaking into every situation. Sam always drank his tea. He had craved normal in a way his brother never had.

Missouri talked as she checked the oven, making sure her muffins didn't burn. "I felt it when it happened," she said. "I felt it when your brother . . . made the trade. I knew you'd by coming on by eventually." She put a little extra sugar in her own cup of tea and sat down across from him, watching him as she stirred. "How are you doing, Sam?"

Sam ignored that question entirely. He put aside his cup of tea, having already taken his first, cursory sip. "Can you still feel him?" he asked, leaning forward on his knees. "Do you know, can you . . . can you get a fix on where he is?"

Missouri looked troubled, and she set aside her own cup of tea. "I'm not sure," she said, looking thoughtfully out at the distance. She might have continued if Sam didn't decide to channel his brother best by sticking his foot right in his own mouth.

"What do you mean, you're not _sure_? Come on, Missouri. You either can or you can't."

Missouri bristled at that. "Boy, I am not a GPS Tracker!" she snapped, and Sam deflated a little, understanding but not particularly apologetic. "The gift doesn't work like that, and you, of all people, should know it. I want to help you, boy, but I can't do it if you aren't going to listen. _Are_ you going to listen, Sam, or would you like to flounder a bit more the way you have been?"

And that got a rise out of Sam, even as he was just beginning to calm down. "Don't talk to me like that," he snapped suddenly. "You don't know—you can't, you haven't been—you don't _know_, Missouri. You don't get to judge me on this. Dean was—Dean's just—you don't get it. You can't. You don't know _anything_."

Missouri's eyes softened a little at that. "I do, Sam," she said, but Sam shook his head.

_You don't_, he thought, and Dean-In-His-Head said, _She can't. She can't understand, Sammy. She's not a Winchester._

One of Missouri's eyebrows shot up, and Sam cringed a little, desperately not wanting _that_ particular conversation. He knew the fact that he heard his brother's voice in his head was weird, knew that if Dean ever found out, he'd probably want little Sammy's head examined (_you hear VOICES, Sam? That's a little out there, even for us)_ but that was a problem for another day. Sam didn't have time for a lecture on cracking up. He needed to find Dean, and he needed Missouri's help to do it.

Sam waited, but mercifully, Missouri didn't comment on any thoughts she might have picked up. Instead, she took a sip of her tea and looked out the window, seemingly at nothing in particular. "I don't have coordinates for you, Sam," she said. "No town name or anything as convenient as a Welcome Here sign. But I have been trying, and when I focus on Dean, I get . . . images. I don't know what they mean, exactly. But it's all I can give you right now."

Sam leaned forward again. "What kind of images?" he asked eagerly.

"Well . . ." Missouri hesitated, glancing quickly at Sam and then away again. "A bus, for starters."

Sam blinked. "He's riding a _bus_?" he asked without thinking. He couldn't help it; the very idea was unfathomable. Sure, Dean had left the Impala behind, and sure, he didn't have any transportation available, and sure, he wasn't really even Dean anymore, but still . . . "A bus?"

Missouri sighed. "I don't know, child. I don't know if he's riding a bus or thinking about a bus or just looking at a bus. I just know that's what I see when I think of him. A bus, a blue bus." She narrowed her eyes. "The color's very distinct."

_A blue bus_. It sounded ridiculous, and yet . . . there was something about that image that gave Sam pause, something that seemed familiar. _Who CARES_? Dean-In-His-Head said. _That's not going to help you find me. Is this really the best you've got_? Sam told him to shut up absently, and focused back on Missouri.

"Anything else?" he asked doubtfully.

Missouri hesitated again, eyes drawn to the teacup in her hand. "I've seen your Daddy," she said quietly.

Sam started. "You've seen _Dad_?" he asked incredulously. "But, but, he's not . . . he's in H—he's gone, right? He's not—he's not _here_?"

Missouri shook her head. "I don't think so, child. I don't think it's really him, I'm seeing, not his spirit anyway, just—just a memory. Could be your brother's been thinking about him a good deal. Could be the place reminds him of your Daddy, a place where your Daddy . . . smiled."

Sam frowned at that. Dean thinking of Dad wasn't exactly much of a clue—_every_ place reminded Dean of Dad in some way or another—but a place that Dad had been smiling? _That_ narrowed the field quite a bit.

Too much, in fact. Sam tried, but he could never go back to a time where he really believed that his Dad had ever been happy. His whole life, Dad had been focused, Dad had been grim . . . except . . . "Could he be here? Missouri? Could Dean actually be in _Lawrence_?"

What luck that would have been, stumbling on to Dean after searching so aimlessly for the past two weeks. But that would have been too easy, and Missouri was already shaking her head. "No," she said, "no. I'd be able to feel it, if he were here. No, he's further out, to the coastline, maybe, further west." She tapped a finger on the side of her tea cup, measuring out slow beats that Sam instantly recognized. _Tap . . . tap . . .tap . . . tap . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill_. "He's out west," she said. "I'm sure of it. The west—"

"Is the best," Sam finished, and Missouri looked at him, surprised. "Song lyrics," he explained. "The Doors. It was this damn song he had in his head before he . . . before he made the deal." He looked down at his hands, seeing nothing but Dean cleaning guns repetitively, pretending everything was all right. _Why didn't I see it_? he thought. _I should have seen it._

_You did see it,_ Dean-In-His-Head said. _You just didn't want to._

"That's not true at all, boy," Missouri said sharply. "You'd do anything for your brother. Dean knew that. He loved you, Sam."

_God_, Sam thought. _I know that. Don't you think I know that?_ He felt tears sting his eyes and he pushed them away impatiently, wondering how many times he'd cried in the last week alone. It didn't matter. He rubbed his face with his hands, tired and frustrated and more than a little defeated.

"The blue bus doesn't help much either," he admitted after a minute. "It's just another part of the song. I swear that damn song is haunting me."

"It's haunting your brother, too," Missouri said. "Of that, there is little doubt."

Sam just shrugged. Dean could have the Macarena stuck in his head 24/7; it didn't help Sam tracking him down one bit. "There's got to be something else," he said. "Something that would help me find him." He frowned. "There has to be a reason Dad's sticking out. You can't see this place at all?"

Missouri shrugged helplessly. "I'm not sure, Sam," she said. "I see your father, I see him smiling, and . . . and he's in a motel room, I can see that, but—yes, Sam, I _know_ how many motel rooms you and your father have been to, I know you were pretty much raised in motels, give me some credit, boy, I'm not a simpleton—but I can't see this motel clearly. It's faded, like an old photograph. I can see rain and a . . . a flower in the corner of the room. This flower, it's a sad excuse for a flower, really, and around it are—"

"Presents," Sam said suddenly. "Two, wrapped, Christmas presents."

Sam remembered he had so desperately wanted a tree that year, but he knew he would never get one, so he pulled one of the old, dying roses from the motel garden and made it their "Christmas Flower" instead. Dean had instantly pronounced it as the "dumbest thing in the history of the _universe_" but it had been important to Sam, so they kept the sad looking thing.

One of those wrapped presents was for Sam. Inside were the three Armless Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles of Death.

"It's this motel we stayed at one Christmas," he said. "California, somewhere north. Fort Bragg, I think. Dean, right before he . . . left . . .he and I were talking about it. It was a pretty unusual Christmas. And Dad _did_ smile that day. I don't know why, but he was smiling." He shook his head and looked at Missouri. "Do you think that's where he is?"

Missouri shook her head with a sad smile. "I don't know, child," she said. "But that's what I see when I think of Dean. Do you remember the place, Sam? Do you remember the actual motel?"

Sam thought for a minute. "No," he had to admit. "But I'm pretty sure about the town, and Fort Brag's not a huge place. Anyway, it's a start. It's a direction." It's _something_, he thought. _It's really SOMETHING._

It was so much more than he had yesterday, that Sam could no longer sit still. He stood up and started pacing the living room restlessly, Missouri's eyes on him, a tentative, worried smile on her face. He knew what she was thinking, but he didn't want to think it himself, turned away from her compassion, her concern.

"I'm going to get him back," he said sharply, leaving no room for argument. "I _will_."

"Sam," Missouri said softly.

"_No_. I'm Going. To Get. Him Back."

"I know you're going to try, honey," Missouri said. She came to stand near Sam, took his hand and made him look down at her. "And I believe you just might do it. But Sam, you have to understand . . . this isn't a possession that you're dealing with. You can't throw a few words at your brother and exorcise this away. It's more than that, Sam. It's _bigger_ than that."

Sam looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "Is he anywhere in there at all, Missouri? Is Dean still _Dean_ . . . somewhere?"

Missouri sighed. She let go of his hand, and moved to the couch, sitting down carefully, her eyes away to look at something he couldn't see. ""He's still Dean," she said softly. "He's just not your Dean."

Sam moved to sit next to her on the couch, and she looked at him, eyes troubled and dark. "Dean isn't possessed," she told him. "It's more like he gave up a part of his soul. Not the whole soul—your body isn't much more than a sack of meat without one—but a piece of it, Sam. And he didn't lose that piece. He offered it."

Sam tried to look away, and Missouri took him by the chin and forced him to look at her again. "I believe in you, Sam," she said. "I know you, know you how bright and strong-willed you are—just like your Daddy, stubborn as an ox and never backing down. I know you can't give up, Sam, and I know you have to do this, but I don't know, Sam. I don't know if you can get _your_ Dean back."

Sam met her eyes then, stood up slowly as she took his hand again. "I'll get him back," he said.

"I _have_ to get him back."

IX.

Missouri bullied him into spending the night (_Boy, I know you haven't got a decent night's sleep since your brother left, and it don't take a psychic to know it; you look two steps from a cold grave)_ but he still didn't get much more than an hour's worth of shuteye; how could he, knowing that his brother was out there and finally having a lead on where he might be? It wasn't a solution, wasn't even a certain conclusion that he'd find Dean at all, but it was something. It was what he had, and he'd take it.

He'd take it.

He left early the next morning, loaded with a bucket of comfort food Missouri gave to him with a scowl, just daring to him to comment on how fried chicken and biscuits were going to help. He didn't comment. Instead, he gave her a hug and thanked her for giving him something to go on, something to live for.

There were a few more tears spilt, and then Sam was driving, turning on the interstate towards California.

_So, what's the plan here, Sammy_? Dean-In-His-Head asked dryly. _You come find me, tell me how much you love me, and what? I magically re-grow my soul? We hug and cry and live happily ever after? Birds sing and chipmunks dance? Good triumphs just cause you want it to?_

Sam smirked at that. "Yeah, Dean," he said. "That sounds good to me. That sounds like a plan."

_That's not a plan, you IDIOT. That's a fantasy. That's a lie._

"Maybe," Sam said. "But it's what I'm going to do. I'm going to save you, Dean."

"I'm going to save you, this time."

X.

_I'm going to save you, Dean_ . . . and Dean's eyes snapped open, the pain immediate and digging through his skull. He sat up quickly, fingers pushing into his forehead until the pain receded back to something more manageable and dull.

The chick in his bed, Candy or Callie or something, woke up as he cracked his neck. She looked up at him, hands rubbing her face. "Hey baby," she said, "you okay?"

He grinned easily at her. "I'm always okay, darlin," he said. He stood up and walked over to the table, where a fresh pair of jeans, a knife, a pack of cigarettes, and silver bowl lay. He lit one of the cigarettes, stuck it in his mouth, and threw on the jeans while looking back at the girl. "Come here," he said to her.

Candy or Callie did, blinking owlishly at him. She was obviously still pretty drunk, swaying a little as she made her way over to him and pressed close into his side. He had a decent buzz goin on himself, and he stilled for a moment as she slid a hand down the front of his jeans. _Maybe_ . . . he thought, but he had things to do, so he shoved her backwards a few steps, steadying her when she stumbled. "Not now," he said to her. "Later. Hey, look into this bowl for me, okay?"

Candy or Callie nodded and peered at the bowl as if it might suddenly turn into gold. When it didn't, she turned to look at him, giggling as if it was the funniest thing in the whole world. "It's empty," she said.

"It's not," he told her seriously. "It holds your entire life."

Candy or Callie frowned at him, trying to get the joke and coming up short. "I don't get it," she said.

Dean grinned. "They never do."

Then he pulled out the knife from behind him and slit the girl's throat.

Candy or Callie's blood poured into the bowl when Candy or Callie herself went to her knees, gagging, futily trying to push her hands to her throat as if she could somehow push her blood back into her body. Dean kicked her aside without a second glance and ignored how her legs twitched as he looked into the bowl full of her blood.

"Dude," Dean said. "You have _got_ to come up with a less messy communication system. You ever think about buying a phone?"

He didn't know how this worked, exactly, didn't much care about the technical details. The blood acted as some sort of conduit, allowing him to hear the Demon's voice but not actually see him. The Demon's voice came through now, slow and dryly amused at Dean's expense. "A cell phone doesn't exactly ooze evil," the Demon said. "A bowl of blood is _so_ much better for my image. What do you want?"

Dean grinned around his cigarette. "It's like you're not even happy to hear from me," he said, mock-sadly. "I bet you're nicer to all your other children."

"My other children get to the point. _You_ obviously still need some work on that."

Dean sighed. Work, work, work. He thought the whole point of being, you know, _evil_, was not _having_ to work, of just screwing around, having sex, killing people, the usual. Not that he wasn't doing that. But the Demon was so one-track about his whole Plan sometimes. Tell the truth, Dean was getting more than a little bored of the whole world-is-coming-to-an-end thing. Sure, the idea of apocalypse sounded good on paper, but did anyone have any idea how much _groundwork_ you had to lay for one?

Try telling that to the Demon, though. Truth was, Dean was getting a little bored of him, too.

Still, the Demon was right. This form of communication only lasted as long as the blood stayed warm, so there wasn't so much time for shooting the shit and dickering around. Dean sighed. Yet another reason to convert to cell phones.

Another task for another time. "Sam's coming," he told the Demon. "I dreamed of him on the road. He knows where I am."

"So kill him," the Demon said instantly. "You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

Dean pretended to give the matter a moment's thought. "Nah," he said after a minute. "It's his own fucking fault for coming after me." And, honestly, the trouble he had gone to too, writing that sweet little note, warning him that Dean was evil now, evil in big, fat, fucking capital letters. And still, Sam had come after him. He never when to leave things the hell alone.

Besides . . . it wasn't like Dean hadn't wanted his brother to come after him. He sure as hell didn't pick this city for the sights. Or, for that matter, for the warmth of Christmas memories, or some kind of pitiful, ass-backwards nostalgia. That might be how _Sam_ remembered this place, some motel where he had a _real _Christmas just like a _real_ boy, but Dean knew this was just one place his father decided to act like a father for once. And what? Was good ole Dad supposed to get a medal for not failing one day in 24 fucking years?

Dean's lips curved upwards. It was nice to think of Dad, burning in Hell. It was nice to think that Sam would soon be joining him. He had some issues with his brother, after all, issues that were perfectly understandable given their history together.

And now he had some new, sharp toys to work them out with. Yes, he was looking forward to Sam's arrival.

A flare of pain caught the side of his temple, and he growled, rubbing the side of his head with one hand. "I'm not so worried about killing Sam," Dean said into the bowl. "What I _am_ worried about are these godamned headaches all the fucking time. I thought these were supposed to get better after awhile. Don't they make, like, a Vicodin for Demon Fledglings or something?"

The Demon laughed. "Try killing something," he advised. "Always puts me in a better mood."

Dean looked down at the floor. Candy or Callie was still lying there, one hand stretched out towards the door, her legs no longer twitching. "Already did," he said, flicking his eyes over the curve of her body. Her eyes were still open. They were fixed, terrified.

It _did_ make him smile . . . but still . . . "Pain didn't go away," he complained. "I mean, sure, the killing was good while it lasted, but . . ."

"Make it last longer," the Demon suggested. "Double the torture, double the fun. Right, Dean?"

Dean thought about that as he glanced out the window. There were two girls in the parking lot, both in sarongs and bikini tops, looking helplessly at their stalled car. "Right," he said a little breathlessly as he watched one of them lean over the hood of the car. "Think I might try that out. If you'll excuse me . . ."

The Demon was dry. "Of course," he said.

Dean drained the blood down the bathroom sink. He threw on a T-shirt, put out his cigarette, and lit a new one. He had got into smoking when he was a teenager, some kind of silent rebellion against his Dad, although his Dad never found out. Sam saw him once, though, and the look of disappointment on his face . . . Dean had stopped smoking immediately. He had cared so much what his little brother thought of him . . .it was disgusting, really.

Didn't matter now. Now, Sammy was coming for a little family reunion, and Dean would be sure to make the event a memorable one.

He stepped out of the motel room, never looking back at the dead girl on his floor. He'd have to bury her later (work, work, work, always with the work) but for right now, he had other things on his mind. He put a Do-Not-Disturb sign on his door and walked over to where the bikini-clad girls were standing, waving at them politely. He gave his best "aw-shucks" smile.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

Turned out, they did.

-TBC

-Lyrics are from The Doors

-Reviews are appreciated in all shapes or sizes.


	4. The Road to Damascus

A/N: Because I was dying for a flashback chapter. Didn't mean for it to turn into an _epic_, but what are you going to do? Thanks again, everyone, for the great reviews.

THEN: Dean steals Sam's powers so that he can make a deal with the Demon, giving up a piece of his soul in exchange for Sam's safety. Sam meets up with Missouri, who gives him a clue on where Dean might be staying. Also, Dean's been a _very_ naughty boy.

NOW:

I.

Sam stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon, looking down and down and down. He didn't like it here, didn't like that there was no end to how far you could fall, but Dean had wanted to come, so Sam had come with him.

Now they were standing and looking down and Sam wished they had never come in the first place.

"It's amazing," Dean said, and Sam looked at him. Dean looked calm, serene . . . a little like an angel actually, leather jacket, biker boots, and all. Sam didn't like it, didn't like Dean looking like an angel—angels were too ready to sacrifice themselves, to ready jump ahead and take the hit. And Sam was pretty sure that angels could still bleed.

Sam was so tired of seeing his brother bleed.

Dean nudged Sam's shoulder. "It's amazing," he said again, as if they were speaking from a script and Sam had simply missed his cue. Sam knew he was probably supposed to agree, but he just didn't have it in him.

So, instead, he shrugged. "If you say so, man."

"Oh, come on, Sam. Look at it. It's like freaking perfect." Dean grinned and stepped forward, and Sam didn't like how his toes hung over the edge. "I bet you could just fall forward and never stop, never land. I bet you could fall forever." His grin disappeared instantly. "God, that sounds nice."

"Dean—"

"If I didn't have you to look out for, Sammy, that's exactly what I'd do."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. He put his hand on his brother's arm as Dean looked down at the abyss with something close to need. "Don't say that, man. Please, Dean, don't say it."

Dean just shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "It's the truth. It's always been the truth. You're the only thing keeping me here, tethered to the earth and the hell that's on it." He sighed, kicking at the loose soil under his foot. "I'm tired, man. You can't know how tired I am."

"I do," Sam said desperately. "I know. But it's going to be okay. I'll make it okay. One way or another, I'll make it okay, Dean. I swear to you. You're my brother, man. I love you."

Dean glanced at him. "Yeah?" he asked. "Really?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, of course really, you dumbass."

Dean smiled quietly. "Then prove it," he said.

At first, Sam didn't know what he was talking about.

Then, suddenly, he did.

"No," Sam said sharply, shaking his head and backing away. "No. No, Dean. I'm not going to do that."

"You got to, Sammy," Dean said earnestly. He took a step towards Sam as Sam took another step back. "Please, man, I got no one else to ask. I need you to do this. You have to do this for me."

Sam shook his head. "No way, Dean," he said. "I won't do it. I won't let you leave me."

Dean smiled bitterly. "Oh," he said. "Guess I should have realized. It's all about you, right? It's always been all about you."

"Dean, I didn't—"

"Sam," Dean said.

Sam stopped.

Dean took a step away, and looked down at the edge for a long minute. When he looked back, he was crying. He looked like a broken child.

"Please, Sam. I'm begging you, man. You have to do this. You have to free me."

And Sam gulped back breath, because he couldn't deny Dean this. He wanted to, God, he wanted to, but Dean had sacrificed everything for him.

"Okay," Sam said quietly, not looking up. "If that's what you really want."

Dean's smile was beatific. "Yeah," he said. "That's what I really want."

"Okay," Sam said. "Okay."

And he shoved his brother off the cliff.

II.

Sam woke up with a start, knees jerking upwards and slamming into the steering wheel. He swore as he bent over in pain (as much as he could, anyway; the Impala didn't leave a whole lot of room for maneuverability) and looked blearily around him, trying to remember where he was. He had pulled over awhile ago, aware that his lack of sleep was seriously catching up to him. He had nearly veered off the road three times, and that was after a close call with meeting a semi head-on.

_Yeah_, Dean-In-His-Head had said. _THAT's the way to pay me back for my sacrifice. Get yourself killed on the middle of some highway and, oh, yeah, destroy my CAR. Good plan, buddy, glad college paid off for you. I mean, really, Sam, that's an AWESOME rescue attempt._

_Fuck off_, Sam had thought back. _I didn't ASK you to do this for me._ But he had listened anyway, as usual, and pulled over on the side of the road, telling himself that he'd only rest for half an hour, hour tops.

Sam turned on the car to discover he'd been asleep for four hours.

"_Shit_," he swore under his breath, and pulled the car back onto the road. He still had a whole lot of miles to go before he reached California, and that was assuming that Dean was even there.

_He'll be there_, Dean-In-His-Head said softly. _He picked that motel for a reason. He's waiting for you._

"Yeah," Sam said quietly to himself. "Yeah, I know. It's a real funkytown."

III.

"_Dude. We NEED some code words."_

_Sam barely looked up. He needed this paper done by tomorrow, or Mrs. Miller would be really mad. Mrs. Miller didn't like things late—she didn't believe in excuses, even if they were good excuses. And Sam had a good excuse, a really good one (how was he supposed to write about his summer vacation? It's not like he could say he was helping Dad research werewolves, not unless he wanted to be sent to the looney-bin, which, no; he couldn't be with Dean there). _

_But even if Sam could explain that to Mrs. Miller, she'd just say that this was an excuse, not a reason. Sam liked Mrs. Miller and all, but sometimes that excuse-reason stuff really drove him nuts._

_Sam stared down at his blank piece of paper and tapped his pencil against it. "What do normal kids do for summer vacation?" he asked his brother._

_Dean shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Go to Disneyland or something? Man, who cares? We TOTALLY need code words."_

"_Dean, we don't need code words."_

"_Sure we do."_

_Sam sighed. Dean was always acting like a grown-up, always taking care of him, doing all the stuff that Dad forgot about. Why did he have to pick TODAY of all days to act like a kid? "For what?" he asked._

"_For—I don't know. Like . . . like what if . . . what if a vamp got one of us or something? Yeah, this big, bad, vampire dude kidnapped one of us and made us call Dad and use us as bait or something, right? Yeah, then, if we had a code word, we could warn Dad that it was a trap, and the vampire wouldn't know and Dad could come in kicking ass and taking names and it would be awesome! The vamp would never know."_

"_Vampires aren't real. And why would they be calling Dad, anyway? Wouldn't they just eat you?"_

_Dean rolled his eyes. "That's not the point," he complained. He jumped off the couch which he'd been practically bouncing off to begin with, and came to stand over by Sam, hands energetically tapping the sides of the table to the sound of the radio coming from the other room. Sam sighed again. You'd think DEAN was the nine year old in the room._

"_C'mon, Sammy," Dean said when Sam tried to return to his homework. "It'll be fun, coming up with something. We just need to find the perfect word. What about . . . tangerine?"_

_Sam rolled his eyes. "Tangerine?"_

"_What's wrong with tangerine?"_

"_Dean, who goes around casually talking about tangerines?" Sam put his hand to the side of his face, mimicking a person talking on the phone. "Hey, Dad, I need you to pick me up after I mysteriously disappeared and, hey, look! A tangerine!" Sam shook his head. "You don't think the vamp might get suspicious?"_

"_Maybe vampires are stupid."_

"_Maybe you're stupid."_

_Dean looked at him. "Jeez, what's with you?" he asked. He sat down in a chair next to Sam, finally stopping with all the pacing and the hovering, but his legs jittered against the floor and his hands drummed out beats even more frenetically against the table top._

_He peered curiously at the piece of paper Sam was glaring holes into. "What are you writing, anyway?"_

"_Essay."_

"_About summer vacation?" When Sam nodded, Dean just shrugged, and waved one slightly shaky hand in the air. "So lie," he said. "Say you went to Disneyland, rode a bunch of rides, screamed like a girl, and got a picture with Mickey Mouse. What's so hard about it?"_

_Sam ground his teeth. He loved his brother, but he just didn't get it. "If we were normal, I wouldn't HAVE to lie."_

_Dean rolled his eyes. "Here we go," he said dryly, and stood up from the chair, idly hopping from one foot to another. Sam watched him critically for a minute, looking at all the candy wrappers spread around the room. "You shouldn't eat so much sugar," he said. "Mrs. Miller says it's bad for you."_

"_Yeah, well, Mrs. Miller's a dyke."_

"_Dean!" Sam didn't know what that word meant, exactly, but he knew it wasn't a nice word, and Mrs. Miller wasn't mean. She was a little strict, yeah, and always did that I-need-a-reason-not-an-excuse bit, but she'd never said anything rude, at least not to Sam. She did talk to Dean once, though, after Dean picked Sam up from class. Sam didn't know what she said, but Dean had hated her ever since. "You shouldn't call people names," he told his brother._

"_Why not, asswipe?" Dean went to ruffle Sam's hair, and Sam swung at him before he could get the chance. Dean laughed, back peddling, but then suddenly wavered, a strange look crossing his face. His arms went out to his sides, as if trying to maintain his balance._

"_Dean?" Sam said uncertainly, but Dean didn't answer. His eyes were closed and the look on his face was concentrated, like it took every ounce of his being to stay still and on his feet. After a minute, he slowly opened his eyes with a small, shaky grin. "Whoa," he said quietly. "Little head rush."_

_Sam put down his pencil. "Dean, are you okay?"_

_Dean licked his lips, looking up at Sam and then away. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah." He walked over to the empty chair by Sam and sat down carefully, eyes on the ground. "I'm good, Sam," he said when Sam continued to stare at him. "Just . . . a little dizzy is all. Throw me those M&M's, would you?"_

_Sam did so but frowned. "I'm serious, Dean," he said. "You're not supposed to eat just sugar. Even DAD says that." Dean just laughed at him, and Sam frowned harder. "You should eat something . . . better," he said. "Like . . . like . . . carrots . . . or something."_

_Dean poured a handful of M&M's into his mouth. "Can't," he said, around the chocolate. "Don't got enough food."_

"_What do you mean? We got stuff. Uh, we got . . . I don't know . . . bread and peanut butter and . . . stuff. You could make a sandwich."_

"_That's for your lunch tomorrow."_

"_What about YOUR lunch?"_

_Dean shrugged. "Don't worry about it."_

"_Dean—"_

"_Sam, I said, don't worry about it. Now, are you going to help me pick a code word or not?"_

_Sam sighed. He knew what Dean was doing, but he let himself be distracted. He knew he'd lose any argument, anyway. "How about Disneyland?" Sam said, after a minute. "Dad could ask something like 'How are you doing?' and I could say, 'Well, I'd rather be in Disneyland'."_

_Dean thought about that for a moment before eventually shaking his head. "Nah," he said. "Knowing you and Dad, he'd probably think you were serious. What about . . . John McClane?"_

"_Dean! That's even stupider than tangerine!"_

"_It is not! John McClane's awesome!"_

"_Yeah, as a good guy. As a codeword, he sucks."_

"_You suck."_

"_No, you suck."_

"_No, YOU—hey!"_

"_What?"_

_Dean looked excited. "Listen to the radio."_

Talk about, talk about

Talk about movin

Gotta move on

Gotta move on

Gotta move on

Won't you take me to Funkytown?

_Sam shrugged. He didn't get what the big deal was . . . it was just some song, not even one that Dean would like. "Yeah?" he said. "So what?"_

_Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Come on, Sammy! That's it?"_

"_What's it?"_

"_Funkytown! That's our code word!"_

_Sam shook his head in disbelief. "That is so lame."_

"_It's not lame! It's genius!"_

"_You're crazy."_

"_Yeah, well, you're a geek." Dean indicated the paper Sam was trying to write with one hand. "Why don't you just blow this off? It's only one paper. It's not that big of a deal. Besides, First Blood's coming on in five minutes."_

"_I can't blow it off!" Sam said, horrified. "This is IMPORTANT, Dean. Way more important than some stupid movie."_

"_Some stupid movie?" Dean looked as horrified as Sam felt. "Dude, it's First Blood! It's not just ANY movie."_

_Sam shrugged. "Whatever."_

"_Whatever? Dude, I thought you were supposed to be my little brother, not my little SISTER."_

"_Oh, shut up."_

"_Or what, Samantha? You'll curl your hair and POUT at me?"_

_Sam looked back at his homework and tried his best to ignore his now grinning brother._

"_Samantha! Oh, Samantha!"_

"_. . . ."_

"_Samantha, I need some help with my hair!"_

"_. . . ."_

"_Oh, come on, Samantha. Do you think these shoes match with this purse?"_

_Sam gritted his teeth and ignored Dean. 'I'm not giving in' he thought. 'I'm not giving in.'_

_At least, not until Dean started singing 'Funkytown' at the top of his lungs._

_Then . . ._

"_That's it!"_

_. . . and Sam forgot all about his homework._

IV.

Sam remembered lunging at his brother, driving him back into the living room and assaulting him with couch pillows. Dean laughed the entire time, easily deflecting each block or rolling out of the way.

_Dizzy, half-starved, and sugar high . . . and you still had me pinned in ten seconds flat._

_I know_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _I was just all kinds of awesome, wasn't I?_

Sam laughed a little to himself. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you were."

He was driving past Black Forest, Colorado now, a town that the Winchesters had lived in for about two months. Not a lot of good memories here—not a lot of good memories in a lot of places. It was pretty much impossible to drive anywhere without thinking of Dean—the two of them had been everywhere together, either lived or hunted or traveled through. Each town he passed was haunted with more than ghosts. Sam was haunted by _memory_

_Do you remember this town, man_? Dean-In-His-Head asked. _You must have got beat up, what? Three, four times before I finally got the truth out of you?_

Sam smiled helplessly. "Yeah," he said, "I remember." There had been this girl, Kasey, who had wanted help with her homework. Kasey's boyfriend, who had been a few years older, got the idea that Kasey wanted more than scholastic help from Sam. Kasey's boyfriend and his five friends helped Sam into the hospital by breaking his collarbone.

_That's what you get, for looking at my girl. Nobody, NOBODY, looks at my girl._

Sam laughed dryly. "If I hadn't been in the most excruciating pain of my entire life," he said, "I might have had something to say about recycling cliché lines from bad movies."

_Yeah_, Dean-In-His-Head agreed. _They weren't too witty, were they? And man, you're right, broken collarbones SUCK. But they got theirs in the end, Sammy. You know I made sure of that._

God had he. Sam had been high as a kite on whatever drug he'd been given, so Dean didn't have a whole lot of trouble getting the story out of him. The first few roughing ups had been small stuff, nothing big that Sam couldn't handle on his own, but the last time Kasey's boyfriend, Tom, had meant business. And though Sam hadn't wanted Dean or Dad to know, he couldn't hide a broken collarbone. He had to go to the hospital.

When Dean pushed, Sam spilled. He told about everything that had happened, and at one point he started crying, though he couldn't have said why. Later, he understood that the medication was just screwing with his moods, but at the time Sam felt like he was falling apart. He talked about Tom and his football friends and how he just wanted his big brother to come and find him. _Where were you_? Sam had asked, bewildered and miserable and high. _Where were you?_

Dean had listened without speaking a single word, hand locked in Sam's like he was holding on for life. After a few minutes, the weepy spell passed as soon as it had come, and Sam was blinking at his brother who was standing very, very still. Sam was almost afraid to speak. Dean looked like he might explode at any given second.

But Sam couldn't just lie there and watch Dean stare at him like that, like there was something building inside him desperate to break free. "Dean?" he asked, giving Dean's hand a little shake. "Dean?"

Dean shook himself a little and smiled at Sam. It was supposed to be a reassuring smile, Sam was sure, but Dean failed spectacularly in that endeavor. Instead, Dean had produced a cold sort of grin, something that people saw right before they got their heads smashed in. "Dean?" Sam asked, but now Sam was so tired. He had gone from maudlin to exhausted in two seconds flat.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said soothingly. "You just go to sleep. Go to sleep." And though Sam didn't want to, knew that Dean was about to do something either very bad or very stupid, he didn't have a whole lot of choice in the matter.

When Sam woke up, he was being checked out AMA, and they were fleeing the county after Dean had beaten the holy _hell_ out of Tom and his buddies. All six were checked into the hospital. Tom himself had ended up in the ICU.

"You almost killed him, you know," Sam said conversationally. He knew he should probably be worried about that, worried that he was actually holding a conversation with a brother who wasn't really there—but Sam figured as long as he _knew_ it was in his head, then it was okay. Once Sam literally started _seeing_ his brother in the car, well, then they'd have a problem.

For now, things were okay. This was just . . . Sam's way of coping. He wasn't used to being alone. Even at Stanford, he'd had Dean-In-His-Head to talk to.

And those conversations had never really stopped. They had just slowed down a little. Since coming back to this life and having the real Dean to talk to, Sam hadn't relied on the imaginary one quite so much.

Now, the imaginary Dean was all he had, to keep him going, keep him sane.

_He got what he deserved_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _Besides, what are you worried about? He lived, didn't he? And there probably wasn't any brain damage. Dude wasn't all that bright to begin with, so it wasn't easy to tell._

"That's not funny," Sam said. "What were you thinking, taking on six guys by yourself? You're lucky _you_ didn't end up in the hospital."

_Me? Never. Besides, it's sort of part of the older brother's job description, beating up the bullies who beat up your brother._

"Yeah?" Sam said. "Is it also part of the job description to sell your freakin _soul_?"

_Yeah, Sammy_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _If it saves you, that's all that matters._

But Sam didn't want to hear that, even though he knew that it was true, at least to Dean.

_But not to me, Dean. You mean more than that to me._

V.

Sam listened to the radio until Black Sabbath came on (at least it wasn't The Doors again; Sam didn't know if he was ever going to be able to listen to The Doors without screaming) but Black Sabbath wasn't a whole lot better; Sam was sure that the lyrics were some kind of personal joke from God.

_I search for serenity yeah,  
Is it really out there?  
I don__'t read the holy books cause  
They take me no where  
I cant hold on yes I'm losing control  
I'm paying the price now for  
Selling my soul, selling my soul_

Sam snapped the radio off by pounding his fist into it.

_Dude!_ Dean-In-His-Head said. _You're going to break my car if you keep hammering her around like that._

Sam glared at the road, since he didn't actually have a brother to glare at. "I don't care about the _car_," he hissed.

_Well, you should. You're supposed to take care of her. You know, last wishes and all that._

"It wasn't your last wish," Sam snapped. "You're not going to _die_, Dean."

And in his mind, Sam could almost see Dean smirk sadly.

_Probably better if I did_, he said softly.

VI.

Sam found himself humming as he past a welcome sign for American Fork, Utah. To his disgust, he realized he was humming Dean's favorite song of late, and he turned the radio back on again for the only slightly less disturbing, "I Will Survive." Dean had always had hated that song. Truth be told, Sam did too.

"Never anything good on," he muttered as he flipped through stations and glanced at the town he was passing through. After a few minutes, he realized he'd remembered the place—the Winchesters had lived here to, although it was a long, long time ago. Sam wanted to think he was five, but he wasn't sure. A lot of memories blurred together on the road. It was kind of surprising he remembered the place at all.

_Or not_, he thought to himself as he glanced at a café to his right. He remembered that restaurant, though he thought it might have had a different name 18 years ago. They had stayed at the motel right across the street. Dean and him had gone there almost every day, while Dad was on the job.

Impulsively, Sam pulled over to the side of the road and found a place to park. He went into the restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee to go—his stomach rumbled angrily at the thought of denying himself food, but Sam didn't want to wait that long. Still, he glanced around the restaurant as he waited for his coffee, and his eyes fell on a booth in the back by the window.

"Here's your coffee," the girl at the register said, handing him a styrofoam cup as she rung him up. Sam's stomach rumbled again, betraying him, and the girl glanced up with a slight smile. "Sure that's all you want, sir?" she asked. "We make great breakfasts here."

Sam started to shake his head when the empty booth caught his eye again. He heard himself saying, "Actually, I think I will stay. Can I sit over there?"

The girl shrugged. "Sit anywhere you want. It ain't exactly bustling yet." She handed him a menu.

Sam took it from her, picked up his coffee, and went to sit in the booth. Dean always would pick this one if it wasn't taken—Sam didn't know why at the time, but now realized that it had given him a full vantage point of the restaurant.

_Jackie's Flapjacks_, Sam remembered suddenly. That was what the place had been called. Most people just called it The Diner, though, probably because in this part of the world, nobody ate flapjacks. They ate pancakes.

Sam used to get them every time. Dean would tease him about it—without actually ever saying anything.

The waitress came over. "Do you need a couple of more minutes?" she asked.

Sam smiled softly to himself, lost in the memory. "No," he said, a little distantly. "No, I think I know what I want."

VII.

"_Pancakes!"_

_Dean rolled his eyes, which meant _Get something else for a change_, but Sam shook his head defiantly, looking up at Shelley, their waitress. "Pancakes," he said again, although to the rest of the world, it sounded a lot like 'pan-cays'. "Pancakes and . . . and bacon!"_

_Shelley smiled at him. Dean and Sam came in here, like, always, so they knew all the waitresses, but Shelley was their favorite. Sam liked her a lot. She had really pretty blonde hair. And she was never mean to Dean when he didn't feel like talking. Sometimes, Dean didn't like talking to anyone that wasn't their Dad or Sammy._

_Today was one of those days. Shelley turned to Dean for his order, and he pointed out a cheeseburger . . . Dean liked cheeseburgers for breakfast, even though cheeseburgers weren't REALLY breakfast food; Sam always told him that, and Dean always rolled his eyes, which meant, _It's breakfast time and I'm eating it, right? Well, then, it IS breakfast food.

_Shelley wrote down Dean's order. "You want fries with that, honey?" she asked him. She always called him 'honey' and even though Dean would roll his eyes, Sam and Shelley could both tell he didn't mind. Shelley was careful not to touch him, though. Dean WOULD mind being touched. At least, by anyone other than family. Dean liked Shelley, but he didn't trust her. Dean didn't really trust anybody._

_Sam knew why ("there are bad things out there, Sammy, bad things that can look just like people") but Sam was pretty sure Shelley wasn't one of them—she was too nice, and she gave really good hugs. Sam tried telling Dean that he'd like one of her hugs, if he'd just let her, but Dean rolled his eyes, which meant, _Sammy, you're such a girl

_Sam didn't want Dean to think he was a girl. So he didn't bug Dean anymore about hugs. He also decided not to tell Dean how much he liked it when Dean tucked him in at night. He thought, _Maybe, if I tell him, he'll think I'm being girly and never tuck me in again

_A part of Sam knew that he was just being really silly. But he still worried, so he never said anything._

_Once Shelley left, Sam leaned forward and asked when Dad was coming back. Dad was hunting a Black Dog somewhere, and he'd been gone a couple of days. He knew Dean sometimes worried (even though he always rolled his eyes, which meant he never worried) but Sam REALLY never worried, because he knew his Daddy could kick every monster's butt out there._

_And if he couldn't—well, there was Dean. Dean would always be around to take care of them. He did a lot of the grown-up stuff anyway._

_In response to Sam's question, Dean shrugged his shoulders. He put up two fingers, paused, added a third finger, and then shrugged again._

_Sam nodded and started talking about his day—they had learned all about cats today, the big kinds like "lines" and "chee-ahs". Dean smiled as Sam told him about what kinds of food they liked to eat and how Mrs. Stewart said they were really dangerous ("but that's really silly, Dean, it's just a cat; it's not like it's a WERECAT or anything") and he outright laughed when Sam told him that leopards were his favorite cats of all._

"_What?" Sam asked defensively as Dean continued to laugh. "They are. Lepers are really cool."_

_Dean shook his head, suppressing the laughter with a wide smirk. He waved one hand in the air. _Nevermind, Sammy, nevermind. How was the rest of your day?

_Sam still didn't get what was so funny, but he decided to ignore it for now. He had something he wanted to ask Dean, and it wasn't something Dean was going to like at ALL. But Dean was laughing now; he was in a good mood, so maybe this was the best time to ask . . ._

"_Dean?" Sam said. He hesitated and quickly came to the conclusion that if he said it really, really fast, it might turn out better. "CanIstayhomefromschooltomorrow?"_

_Dean narrowed his eyes. _What? _There was no anger in that 'what'; simply confusion. Dean just hadn't understood him._

_Sam sighed. "Can I stay home from school tomorrow?" he asked more slowly, although maybe not more clearly. Daddy complained sometimes that Sammy was hard to understand. Sam tried to speak more like he was supposed to, but he could never hear the difference between how he said the word and how his Daddy did._

_Dean opened his mouth soundlessly and slowly spread his hands wide in the air. _Why? You love school, Sammy.

_Sam looked down at the table. "Cause we gotta do a pro-jet tomorrow, and I dunno how to do it."_

_Dean raised an eyebrow. _Impossible, little brother. You can do anything.

"_No, really, I don't. I don't know how. I'll mess it all up and Mrs. Stewart will be real mad and I don't want her to be mad, Dean." Sammy liked Mrs. Stewart, almost as much as he liked Shelley. Mrs. Stewart didn't have very pretty hair, but she WAS real smart, and she always said that Sammy was smart too. Sammy liked that, he liked being the smart kid in class and knowing that Mrs. Stewart was proud of him just like his big brother was proud of him, but if he couldn't do this project then she wouldn't be proud. She'd think he was stupid and she COULDN'T think he was stupid; he'd do anything to make her think he wasn't stupid . . ._

_Sammy felt tears well up in his eyes and he tried to rub them away before Dean saw. But Dean always saw everything. Within a second, he was sitting next to Sam, one arm around his shoulders. Sam sniffled but didn't look up. After a long moment of silence, he heard a sigh._

"_Sammy," Dean said out loud._

_Sam looked up. "I don't want to be stupid," he said and then started crying for real._

_Dean hugged him. Dean never let anybody hug him, but he always gave Sam the best hugs. "You're not stupid," Dean said immediately. "You're kind of a geek, but you're not stupid."_

"_But I don't know what to do."_

"_Well, I'll help you."_

_Sam looked up at him with wide eyes and shook his head._

_Dean's eyes narrowed at that. _Why don't you want me to help?_ When Sam wouldn't answer, Dean sighed again. "Sam?" he asked._

_  
"Cause it'll make you sad." Sam looked down at the table again. "Don't want you to be sad no more, Dean."_

_Dean withdrew his arm and sat very, very still. Sam looked up at him and, for the very first time in the history of forever, realized he couldn't read the expression on Dean's face at all. Which didn't make any sense, because Sam could ALWAYS tell what Dean was thinking—that's how they talked, a lot of the time. But Sam couldn't tell now._

_It scared him._

"_Don't be mad, Dean," Sam said quickly. "Please don't be mad."_

"_I'm not," Dean said quietly. He looked at the table for a few minutes, fingers playing idly with the salt and pepper shakers, and then looked back up at Sammy. "Your project—it's about Mother's Day, isn't it?"_

_Sammy nodded miserably. "Yeah," he said, "it is, and I dunno what that is or what I'm supposed to do, but everyone else thought it was real easy 'cept me because everyone else has got moms but I don't got a mom and I don't remember her at all, and I tried, I try every night, but I can never remember Mommy, and I just—"_

"_Sammy," Dean said and Sammy shut up instantly. Dean was looking at him seriously. "Don't worry. I'll talk to your teacher. You won't have to do the assignment."_

"_She won't think I'm stupid?"_

_Dean shook his head with a tiny little smile on his face. "No, Sammy," he said. "You're too big of a geek to be stupid. Trust me, Mrs. Stewart knows that. She loves little geeks like you."_

"_Oh," Sam said, nodding. "Kay." He sat silently for a minute, watching his brother. Sam still couldn't read the look on his face. "Are you sure you're not mad?" he asked. "Or sad? I don't want you to be sad."_

_Dean glanced at him and then looked away. "You don't have to worry about me, Sammy."_

"_But you're SAD."_

"_No, I'm not."_

"_Liar." Sammy crossed his arms stubbornly. "That's why you don't talk so much. Because of Mommy. Cause you're sad."_

_Dean glanced at him again, and he looked almost . . . embarrassed. Later, Sam would understand that as shame, but at the time, he didn't know that word. He only knew Dean looked as though he had done something wrong. Sam didn't know what that could possibly be._

_Dean took a deep breath. "Do you want me to talk more, Sammy?"_

_Sam thought about that. "No," he said, after a minute. "I mean, you can, but I don't care. I just don't want you to be so sad anymore."_

_Dean didn't say anything for awhile. He moved back to his side of the table and looked out the window for awhile, watching people walk by. Finally, he glanced at Sammy again, giving Sammy's hand a tight, reassuring squeeze. "Okay, Sammy," he said. "I can do that." Then he grinned, as if to prove how happy he could be. "So, what else did you do in school?"_

_Sammy grinned too, and started talking animatedly about recess. "And then I found a caterpillar and I showed it to Mrs. Stewart and she said it wouldn't be a caterpillar forever cause someday it would be a butterfly and just fly away and will it really be a butterfly, Dean? Will it really learn how to fly someday?"_

_Dean just rolled his eyes, which meant _Yeah, you geek, of course it'll be a butterfly._ But it almost meant_ I love you, Sammy,_ cause Dean never needed to talk to say that._

_Shelley came back with two plates of food. "Pancakes," she said, setting them down in front of Sam, "and a cheeseburger with fries." She set down some extra napkins and took a step back. "Anything else I can get for you boys?"_

_Dean shook his head and Shelley smiled at him before she turned around. Sam took a bite of his pancakes and looked up at Dean when he noticed his brother wasn't eating. Instead, Dean was looking at Shelley as she was walking away, his mouth opening and closing, a frustrated, pained look tightening his eyes._

_Finally, he called out, "Shelley!" and Shelley turned around, surprised. Dean glanced down at the table, blushing a little, and then flicked his glance back upwards. "Thanks," he said quietly._

_Shelley just stared at him for a minute, obviously still surprised Dean had said something, and then she just smiled, waving at them. "No problem, honey," she said as she walked towards the back. "Try to remember to save some room for dessert, boys."_

VIII.

"I forget sometimes, you know," Sam said quietly to the Dean in his head. "I forget sometimes just how quiet you were. How _bad_ things were back then."

Sam was sitting in the Impala, still in the parking lot of the restaurant. Inside, he had eaten his pancakes as though he hadn't eaten in days, shoving them down his throat with little to no interest in the subtle art of chewing, but now that he was back in the car, he couldn't get himself to drive, not just yet. He knew he needed to find his brother, and yet . . . he couldn't stop thinking of what Dean had been like, all those years ago.

"You talk so damn _much_ sometimes," Sam said out loud to the empty car. "I forget that you didn't always, that some days you never said a word, that you . . ." He trailed off, looking back at the restaurant that he and his brother had frequented close to 20 years ago.

"It's like I got it, and then I didn't get it. Like, I knew you talked less than most kids, that there was something, vaguely, wrong about that, but . . . I didn't get _how_ much you didn't talk. Christ, Dean, we used to have whole conversations where you never said a word. I didn't . . . I didn't know. I didn't understand how _strange_ that was."

And it hadn't always been like that. Some days, Dean talked like a normal kid. He was never very outgoing with strangers, and he certainly didn't allow anybody but his family to touch him, but some days Dean had conversations with words.

Other days, he had them with facial expressions.

Sam and Dean had been so close as children, they seemed to almost have a psychic connection. _In some ways_, Sam figured, _I've always had a Dean mouthing off in my head._

Sam turned the key in the ignition, but hesitated before pulling out. He could remember the look on Shelley's face, the clear surprise in her eyes when Dean had spoken something unprompted. It didn't happen overnight, but after that day, Dean's silent spells started to decrease in number, until finally you would never have guessed he had been almost mute as a child.

It was something else that Sam hadn't understood as a kid. He hadn't got the significance of Dean talking more, just understood that he was.

Now, he understood that Dean had only started talking to make _Sam_ happy, to take care of _Sam_

"Jesus, Dean," Sam said to himself. "Didn't you live _any_ of your life for you?"

Dean-In-His-Head didn't respond.

As usual, he didn't have to.

IX.

"Hotel California" was as good a song as any to cross the border from Nevada to Cali. Sam sang along because Dean-In-His-Head was singing along—albeit, loudly and obnoxiously with dramatic arm-swinging gestures to portray all the _angst_ that the song embodied. Sam almost snickered as he imagined his brother on his knees, crooning the song as badly as possible. Dean actually had a pretty decent singing voice—which, of course, he never utilized, because that wouldn't have been so _annoying_

Sam glanced at the clock. It would only be a few hours now, until he hit Fort Bragg. He'd have to find the motel, of course, but Sam wasn't so worried about that. He didn't think Dean would be hard to find.

After almost two weeks of nothing . . . Sam would see his brother tonight.

Sam didn't know exactly how to feel about that. He had been so relieved to have something to finally go on, so excited about the idea of finding his brother . . . but now that he was closer, within only a few hours of seeing Dean again, some of that eagerness was wearing thin. After all, he wasn't going to see his brother for some kind of happy family reunion; the brother he met there would not be the brother who raised him.

Sam had to get that brother back; he had to be the one to save Dean, for once. But he desperately craved his big brother's help; he needed Dean's comfort, his confidence that everything would be all right because he damn well said so.

Sam wanted Dean back, and he wanted him back now. He felt like he didn't know how to be a person anymore without him.

_Jeez, Sam_, Dean-In-His-Head snarked. _You think you'd never been without me for as long as two whole weeks before. You'd think you hadn't left me alone for four whole YEARS._

"Don't give me that crap," Sam said flatly. "It's not the same and you know it, man. When I left for Stanford, I left secure in the knowledge that you still had a _soul_."

_Yeah, a broken one_, Dean-In-His-Head said quietly. _C'mon Sammy, you know what kind of man I am. Can't stand apart, can't be independent. Can't be a person without someone else to take care of. You knew what would happen to me when you left. You knew exactly what would happen and you just didn't care._

"That's not true, dammit," Sam snapped at the brother in his head. "That's not true and it's not fair. I _always_ thought you were the strong one. I never thought you needed me."

Which wasn't entirely true, because Sam had always known, to some extent, that his brother wasn't whole without his family. But when he had left, when he had gone to Stanford, Dean didn't follow . . . and Sam thought that meant he'd be okay. Dean needed Dad more than he needed Sam, so he'd be okay. Sam had been sure of it.

"I never thought you needed me," Sam said again, softly, in the empty car. "I always thought it was the other way around."

But Dean-In-His-Head wasn't having any of it. _You told yourself it was the other way around_, he said. _You told yourself, but you knew. You didn't want to, but you knew._

X.

_What they knew about the spirit was that her name was Elaine Marsten; she had been dead nearly ten years and haunting the town ever since. Her death had been claimed accidental; the townspeople believed she died from a snake bite while hiking. But snake bites weren't exactly violent death material; they suspected her husband had killed her._

_What they hadn't known was that Elaine WAS killed from snake bite, in a way; her husband had used it to murder her. Only the venom hadn't killed her, merely paralyzed her. She was still breathing when they put her in that coffin, only nobody had known. Just like that stupid movie Dean had made him watch all those years ago, The Serpent and the Rainbow or something like that. Nobody could tell that they were burying their loved ones alive._

_Just like nobody would know that Sam was alive right now._

_It was funny, but being buried alive had never been one of Sam's bigger fears. Dying on a hunt, sure; they had faced too many things and had too many close calls for Sam to believe that he'd ever die like a normal person, old age or a car accident or some kind of sickness. Sam figured he'd probably get torn apart by a werewolf or outmaneuvered by a poltergeist, probably before he finished high school, if his luck went the way it had been going. But he'd never considered the idea of suffocation; he never wondered what it would be like to claw at his own casket, hoping someone would hear him through six feet of dirt._

_Funny._

Although, _Sam thought as he stared at the star-lit sky_, I might not even have to worry about that. Dad wouldn't want me to come back as a vengeful spirit, would he? No, he'd want to finish the job before it even started. So, Dean and Dad, they won't bury me, won't stick me in some coffin underground. No, they'll light a bonfire instead. They'll burn me alive, just like Mom.

_Baptized in fire and back again, full circle. It's pretty damn funny, when you thought about it._

_Sam was pretty sure he'd be weeping right about now if he could move even the slightest muscle in his face._

_He was lying flat on his back, head angled slightly to the right against the grass of Green Hill Cemetery. His dad was around somewhere, unconscious after getting his head slammed into a tombstone. Sam wished he could see him, but he couldn't; he couldn't move his eyes around even to focus on his peripheral vision. All Sam could see were sky, stars, and Dean._

_Dean was sitting about half a foot away from Sam, knees drawn up tightly against his chest. He was rocking back and forth very softly, a Smith and Wesson resting at his feet._

Dean, _Sam thought, wished he could say out loud. _Dean, I need you to look at me. Dean, please look at me and know that I'm still alive.

_Dean didn't look at him. Dean didn't appear to be looking at anything. There was no expression on his face as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, against the headstone behind him. He just sat there, looking numb, looking hollow._

_It was worse than the tears Dean had wept when he found Sam lying unmoving. Sam hadn't thought anything could have been worse than those tears._

_But this was. This . . . emptiness . . . it was freaking Sam out on whole new levels._

_Sam wished his Dad would wake up, would roll over and get to his feet and figure out how to fix this. Dean thought Sam was dead, but Dad would have to figure it out. He'd wake up, figure it out, and tell Dean that Sam was going to be okay._

Come to think of it_, Sam thought, _I'd like Dad to come around and tell ME everything was going to be okay. _Because being paralyzed like this was getting to be pretty damn creepy._

_Although not as creepy as the look on Dean's face. He'd give anything to change the look on Dean's face._

Come on, Dean. Look at me. LOOK at me. SEE me.

_Dean looked at him._

_Sam gasped. Or would have, had he been able._

_This Dean that was looking at him now . . . it wasn't Dean, not really. It couldn't be. It was like something had been taken from him, some essential, inner Dean-ness that made Dean DEAN. The brother that always looked after him, that told bad jokes and gave big grins and teased him constantly about still being a virgin at 15 . . . that brother was gone. This was just a shell of Dean, looking at him._

_Then the shell started to talk._

"_I didn't love you, you know," the Dean-shell said, talking in this strange voice that sounded light and disconnected from his body. "When you first came home from the hospital, when they brought you home—I didn't want you. I wished you would just go back to wherever you came from. I didn't want you there. I didn't love you, like I was supposed to."_

"_It's always been my job to protect you, you know. Dad's always saying that, but it was Mom who said it first, Mom who said that's what big brothers did, watch out for the little ones, protect them when they couldn't protect themselves. And you were so small, Sam. You were so helpless. But I didn't care. I . . . I hated you, I think."_

_Sam wasn't sure if he could breathe. The air that burned through his lungs hurt like hell, though if that was due to emotion or advancing paralysis, Sam couldn't tell. Dean didn't notice either way, talking in that disjointed way as Sam, helplessly, stared at him._

"_I thought they loved you better. They said they wouldn't, but—they did. I was sure they did. I guess all kids think that. But, you know, I really don't think I was wrong. They did love you better. But it shouldn't have mattered. I should have taken care of you._

You do_, Sam tried to say. _Dean, it's okay. You do.

_Dean closed his eyes. "I wished . . . I wished you'd go away. I wished you'd go away so they'd love me again." Dean took a breath that hitched a little, but when his eyes opened they were still glossy, unfocused. "Sometimes, I think if I hadn't, if I hadn't wished that, then maybe Mom wouldn't have . . ." He trailed for a minute, eyes wandering Sam's unmoving form before ending at Sam's face again. "You were so little," he whispered. "I was supposed to take care of you."_

_Sam was getting more scared by the second. _Come on, Dean_, he thought. _Come on, Dean, you never give up. Don't give up on me now, man. Please, don't give up.

_Dean reached out a hand hesitatingly and brushed hair away from Sam's eyes, smiling a little. If Dean didn't still look like some strange shell version of himself, the gesture would have been sweet instead of creepy. "I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."_

_There was a strange, shrill sound that Sam couldn't immediately identify. At first, he assumed it was some kind of spirit _(God, _he had thought,_ what else could be out there tonight)_ but when Dean calmly reached into the pack next to him, Sam realized it was simply the phone. Dean answered it, eyes never moving from Sam's face._

"_Yeah?" he said. "Hey, Pastor Jim. What's up?"_

_Pastor Jim must have heard the WRONGNESS in Dean's voice, because after a minute Dean said, "I'm fine." He still sounded vague and disconnected, as if he wasn't really there._

_There was another pause on the phone where Pastor Jim was talking. "No," Dean said, "Dad can't come to the phone right now." Then he giggled. Actually GIGGLED. "He always told me to say that, y'know. Never talk to strangers. There are monsters out there." He laughed again and obviously couldn't stop, tears pouring down his face as he stared straight at Sammy._

God_, Sam thought. _He's lost it. He's LOST it. _The idea was inconceivable. Dean was the strong one; Dean was the bad ass. Dean wasn't the one who lost his shit in the middle of a crisis._

_But here Dean was, laughing hysterically and crying, and Sam didn't know what to do._

_Dean's laughter tapered off after several minutes, and he rubbed one hand across his eyes. "No," he said, sounding suddenly a lot more serious. "No, Sammy can't talk either." He looked like a lost kid at Christmastime, just finding out that Santa Claus wasn't real. "I failed him," Dean whispered. "I failed him."_

_Sam could tell Pastor Jim was yelling at this point, but he couldn't make out words, just a voice desperate to get through. Nothing was getting through to Dean, though; Sam could see him shutting down on all levels. "I have to go now, Pastor Jim," Dean said distantly._

_Pastor Jim's voice only got more frantic on the phone. Dean ignored him._

"_Take care of my dad, okay?" he said. "He . . . he needs someone to take care of him. You . . . you do that, okay?"_

_Pastor Jim was still yelling, and Sam could make out words sounded like "Don't do this" and "Dean" and "Please". "I'm sorry," Dean said simply in the phone and shut it off, tossing it carelessly a few feet away where it started to ring again. _

_Dean touched Sam's hair again, fingers spilling down the side of his face. "Sammy," he said, a crooked smile on his face. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."_

_Then Dean looked away, to the gun resting at his feet._

Take care of my dad, okay? You . . . you do that okay?

_Sam couldn't breathe again. _Dean. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Dean, you can't, you can't, you—DEAN! You can't do this, Dean, De—

"_Dean?"_

_At first, Sam thought he had finally managed to move his mouth, finally managed to speak. Then, he realized that the voice hadn't been his. _Oh, thank God, Dad, Dad. _Dean hadn't moved, though, only closed his eyes, looking almost irritated at the sound of his father's voice. His gaze turned slightly wistful as he looked back at the gun._

"_Dean?" Dad called out again, his voice sounding, thick, confused. "Sammy?"_

_Dean closed his eyes again, sighed, and stood up, moving out of Sam's line of sight. Sam could hear Dean talking, but he spoke so quietly that Sam couldn't make out the words. He could hear his Dad, though; incomprehension and anger clear through a resounding "WHAT?" Then footsteps, lurching at first, then loud and steady across the ground, and Dad was sitting in front of him, hands on Sam's shoulders._

"_Oh, Jesus," Dad wept. "Jesus, Sammy, Jesus."_

_Sam tried to respond, tried to say something, anything, but he couldn't even twitch. Dad's face changed as if he had, though; expression moving from grief to anger within the bat of an eye. "No," Dad said, "no," and picked Sam up by the arms, shaking him around. "Wake up, Sammy. Wake up."_

_But Sammy couldn't wake up._

_Dad's head snapped up and he glared at something Sam couldn't see—he could only imagine it was Dean. "Why are you just standing there?" Dad growled. "Help your brother, dammit."_

_There was no response, at least, not one that Sam could hear. Dad glared even harder. "Dean! Godammit, get over here and HELP YOUR BROTHER!"_

_Sam heard odd, shuffling steps—feet tripping over each other, unsure where they wanted to go—and then Dean was kneeling beside Dad, crying softly again, looking dazed and uncertain. He put his hand to the side of Sam's face._

_Dad looked up then, looking suddenly as alarmed as he did angry. "Don't you do that, Dean," Dad said, shaking his head. "Don't you give up on your brother now." He looked back down, convulsively swallowing. "Sam! Sam!"_

_Dean didn't even seem to hear their father. He leaned forward, fingers tightening in Sam's hair. "Sam," he whispered._

_Sam blinked._

_He did it without thinking about it, almost without realizing that he'd done it at all, but the look on Dean's face changed immediately. Within a blink, Dean went from Shell Dean, No-One's-Home-To-Take-Your-Calls Dean straight to Big Brother Dean, My-Sammy's-Alive-and-I-Have-To-Take-Care-of-Him Dean. "Sam," Dean said sharply, looking closer at him. "C'mon, Sam, I saw you. You're still there. I saw you. Come on, Sammy. Blink. I know you can do it. Blink."_

_Sam tried. He couldn't. He just couldn't move. Dad was watching them both, trying to decide if Dean had really seen something._

_Dean didn't seem to notice his father was even there. He stared at his brother, expecting, waiting. "You can do it," Dean said again. "I know you can. I know it."_

_Sam tried, but he just couldn't . . ._

_Dean took his hand. "It's okay," he said softly. "It's okay. I'll wait."_

XI.

It had taken hours before Sam had been able to move, days before he could do it properly without jerking limbs and constant shaking. Dean had slipped back into Dean-mode quickly, as if he had never talked the way he did, and it had hurt coming back so much that Sam let himself forget—but he had seen Dean look at that gun, and he knew exactly what Dean was thinking about doing with it.

_Christ, Dean, _Sam thought. _It wasn't your fault, man. It was never your fault._

_It was always my fault_, the Dean-In-His-Head said. _And don't tell me you don't know something about taking on too much guilt. I remember how you were about Jess, man, and I remember how you were with the ones we couldn't save. Hell, even that old guy who bought it at that hotel . . . didn't have a damn thing to do with you, and you drank yourself stupid anyway. All because of your guilt, your godamned supposed destiny. Well, I don't believe in destiny, Sam. Life is what you make it._

Sam snorted. "So, you're whole making the deal to save me thing? You just thought that'd be fun? You don't think that it's your _destiny_ to save me, or are you the only one who gets a destiny that doesn't end in happy ever after?"

He could almost hear Dean shaking his head. _No, man_, he said. _That wasn't about destiny. I'm not destined to save you; I CHOOSE to save you. It's my choice, every day. It's all about survival, man. Because if I lost you . . . you know what I would have done. You've seen what I would have done. I made this choice to save us both, Sam. And it was the right choice._

Sam grit his teeth as they passed a sign saying Welcome to Fort Bragg.

"The hell it was," Sam said softly.

XII.

The sad truth was, it took barely fifteen minutes to find the motel Dean was staying at. Fort Bragg just was not a huge place, and Sam knew what kind of motel to look for, some place out of the way, cheap and where people didn't look too closely behind closed doors. The second place Sam called had a Dean Winchester staying there.

Sam drove to the motel, scoped the place out. Most of the windows were shut, but one, the furthest from the desk, was wide open. From fifty or so feet away, Sam got his first glimpse of Dean in almost two weeks.

Dean walked by the window several times, not pacing or anxious, just walking, waiting. Weeks ago, before Dean made the deal, the Dean-In-His-Head had tried to warn Sam. _He's waiting for something_, he had said. Sam didn't know what that was at the time, but he had discovered at Missouri's, too wired to sleep. Dean had been waiting for the right time to do his spell, to take Sam's powers. He'd been waiting for the new moon.

Now, here Dean was, waiting again, only this time he was waiting for Sam. Setting a trap.

So Sam did what Dean would do.

He walked right into it.

He watched with binoculars, waiting until Dean went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Then he drew his gun and crawled into the open window, climbing into his brother's motel room.

_This is a massively stupid idea, Sammy_, Dean-In-His-Head warned him. _I mean, seriously, Sammy. MASSIVELY stupid. First class retard stupid. I mean, didn't you learn ANYTHING at college?_

_Yeah_, Sam thought. _But I don't have much other choice._

The toilet flushed and Dean exited the bathroom, a gun (_the Colt_, Sam realized belatedly) trained on Sam.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said with a grin.

"Miss me?"

TBC

-Lyrics by Lipps Inc. and Black Sabbath


	5. Idle Hands

A/N: Just some warnings for some serious violence here. Torture included. Be forewarned.

THEN: Sam travels to California to find his brother. On the way, he remembers various times where Dean took care of him. Also? Dean's a little psychic and a lot of evil, which is never a good combination.

NOW:

I.

It was dull work, waiting around to kill your brother. In a town like this, your options for entertainment were severely limited. Watch some TV, go to the beach, kill somebody . . . been there, done that, and Dean wanted something new. He was itching to get out, go somewhere with a decent night life for once, maybe somewhere like Vegas. Dean figured he could have one _hell_ of a time in Vegas.

But that was the real bitch about setting a trap. You actually had to wait around for your prey to get there, and Sam was taking his sweet _fucking_ time to move his ass along to California.

Dean couldn't see Sam right now, couldn't get this psychic bullshit to work even a little bit consistently, but more often than not, Sam was in Dean's head, and that was a place that Dean didn't like him very much. Mental Sammy was gone, thank freaking Christ for that (_although I guess he didn't have much to do with it, not like ole Jesus and I were ever on the best of terms_) but every time Dean went to sleep, he ended up back in Sam's head, like Sam's thoughts were the only incoming radio station.

And Sam, being Sam, was being a total _bitch_ about the whole thing—sending memories and dreams and the _godamned fucking Doors_—and no matter what he did, Dean couldn't get that song out of his head. Which was ironic because before Sammy had been the one to pick it up from Dean.

_The blue bus is calling us_

_The blue bus is calling us_

_Driver, where you taking us?_

"Yeah, Sam," Dean muttered to himself. "Where the hell are you taking us? What the fuck is the point of this stupid trip down Memory Lane?"

Because Dean wouldn't care if Sam was just being angsty on his lonesome; Dean wouldn't care if Sam was torturing himself by remember the good ole times when Dean had a soul. But Dean _did _care because Sam's emo bullshit was fucking contagious, and Dean was sick of going to sleep and waking up in Sam's head.

_He'll be here soon_, Dean reminded himself. _He'll be here and as soon as he is, you get to make the noises stop. All the dreams and the memories and the thoughts and the songs. As soon as you kill Sam, it'll all go away._

Dean laid down on his bed, eyes staring sightlessly at the dark ceiling.

_Soon_, he thought. _Soon, it'll all go away._

II.

_Dreams of things he didn't want to think about, a life he didn't want to remember, a life he was disgusted that he had ever lived. Sam driving on an empty road, Sam driving, driving, coming for him._

_Dean stood in a deserted hallway, walls painted an obnoxious shade of tangerine. The left wall was made up entirely of doors, red doors, blue doors, one right after the other. Every door opened with the turn of his wrist. None of them were locked—everything was ready, waiting, to be seen. And behind each and every door, Dean found Sam, 9 year old Sam, 13 year old Sam, Sam crying from a hospital bed, Sam begging for his brother. _

_Dean watched a younger version of himself stalking across a baseball field, heading directly for a group of laughing 16 year olds. Dean watched himself kicking the shit out of the six guys that had put his little brother in the hospital, trying his damndest to kill them with his two bare fucking hands. _

_And he could have to, he was raised as a soldier's son (only he was more than a soldier, he was a killer, and he didn't want to know that but he did—he knew exactly what he was, what he had always been) and he _would_ have killed them, dammit, would have killed them for what they did to his Sammy, but his father found him before he could. His father came and swore and ordered Dean to stand down._

_And it was probably the hardest order that Dean had ever had to follow, but Dean followed it, he did, because he was a killer and also more. He was a soldier and he was a good son and he did what his Dad told him to. So Dean let the guys go and swallowed hard against the need for more blood._

They'll never hurt Sammy again_, Dean reminded himself. _Sammy will be fine, and they'll never hurt him again.

_But when he got back to the hospital and picked up his little brother, Sam still looked broken because Dean had failed to save him in the first place._

III.

Dean woke up gasping for breath and immediately put his hands to the side of his head. "Son of a _bitch_," Dean swore, clenching the sides of his skull, and fumbled around in the dark for a minute, looking for some aspirin and a bottle of tequila. Back, before, when he was that _other_ Dean, he had never drunk tequila, at least, not when he was looking to get drunk. Jose was a good guy and all, but Jack Daniels was where it was at. Whiskey was his father's drink, a Winchester's drink, and that had made it Dean's drink too. But, secretly, Dean had never liked whiskey, had always thought it tasted like sour ripe goat piss, and had to knock it back as fast as possible until he was far too smashed to care about the taste anymore.

Now, Dean drank whatever the hell he wanted, and fuck what his Dad would have thought because that bastard was burning in hell.

_I guess the joke's finally on you, Dad. You sold your soul to save the wrong son._

Dean got out of bed and the pain threatened to crush the sides of his skull in. He stood, hunched over, until he was pretty sure he could breathe again. Dean could still feel Sam echoing in his head; he was still pretty far away, maybe Utah, maybe not, and Dean was more than ready for that sonofabitch to be _here_. Dean was ready to let this be over all ready. All these dreams, all these memories, they were seriously crimping on Dean's style, and he hated the constant reminder of how pathetic he had once been.

And apparently that was all Sam could think about, the many ways Dean had lived his life for his brother. Dean wanted to bash Sammy's fucking skull in, and he just would not get here fast enough!

Dean had never been known for his patience, even when he had been in full possession of his soul.

He slugged back the rest of the tequila, but it wasn't enough to get him anywhere near drunk. There were bottles scattered all throughout the room, but every one of them was empty, and this was a lousy fucking time to be dry. "Need to restock on supplies before little Sammy gets here," Dean muttered and grabbed his wallet before heading out the door.

The car he was driving now was a fucking Volvo of all things . . . ugly as sin but an easy steal, and Dean had just needed a way to get from place to place. Still, when Sammy got there, Dean was so taking that Impala back. _Fuck the nostalgic memories; I don't give a shit about any of that. I just need a decent ride and this Volvo? Seriously not my style._

Dean drove the fuckugly Volvo to the nearest liquor store. He passed a couple of 20 year olds on the way out, and he let his gaze linger on them for a long minute. Short skirts, long legs going up and up and _up_ . . . and Dean sighed and turned away, heading back for his original target. He had caused a few too many "disappearances" in this town, and it wasn't like it was a huge place. Dean needed to be careful until Sammy got there . . . after that was done, he could kill whoever the hell he wanted and go wherever he pleased.

Freedom. That was the goal. That was the thing he'd never had his whole miserable life.

As Dean drove back to the motel, the pain in his head flared again, so sharp and white-hot against the sides of his skull that he could no longer see straight. He pulled over quickly, his hands over his eyes. _This is such fucking bullshit. Motherfuckinggodamnedsonofabitchfucktard . . ._

Dean continued in that vein for sometime until the pain receded to something somewhat tolerable. When he could, he opened his eyes and immediately noticed a boy walking on the side of the road.

The boy's age was hard to say. Maybe 10, maybe 12, certainly no older than 13 . . . floppy brown hair and big eyes that gave him a sort of aw-shucks puppy look. He had visible dimples even without smiling.

_Jesus,_ Dean thought. _It's like traveling back in time ten years._

And the possibilities . . . oh the possibilities . . . Dean's mouth pulled into a grin. He was out of the car before he even knew he was doing it.

He took a couple of steps towards the kid, who was slowly approaching and now looking cautiously at him. "Hey," Dean said, doing the friendly-I'm-not-a-soulless-monster-coming-to-kill-you wave. "How's it going, kid? Need a lift home?"

The kid was young, but nevertheless a little old for the whole rote, "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers" speech. Instead, he gave Dean a look that clearly said _How stupid do you think I am_

"That's okay," the kid said. "Thanks anyway." He started to walk past and Dean grabbed him by one arm, twisting his wrist and slamming him into the side of the car.

"I guess that wasn't really a request," Dean said calmly. The kid looked at him with startled, wide eyes and tried to struggle free. When it was obvious he was getting nowhere, he opened his mouth to scream.

Dean pulled out a knife and pressed it to the side of the boy's belly. "You call out," he said softly, "and it'll be the last thing you ever do."

The kid stared at him, big puppy eyes bugging out, and shut his mouth quickly, going absolutely still against the cold metal. Dean watched him for a minute, comparing the features. _Eyes are the wrong color_, he thought. _And his skin's a little too pale . . . but otherwise, hotdamn! He could be a fuckin replica of little Sammy._

The boy began to struggle again, weakly, and Dean slammed the boy's head into his right kneecap. The kid crumpled to the ground, unconscious, and Dean picked him up, holding him almost tenderly in his arms.

_God_, he thought. _He really does look just like Sam at that age._

Then he grinned again. _And to think, I wasn't planning on killing anybody else today._

IV.

_Back in the tangerine hallway again (and he could hear Sammy's voice, even behind the closed doors; Sammy said, "_Dean, who goes around casually talking about tangerines_?") and Dean was so sick of this hallway; he knew it so well. He tried to turn around, go back the way he came, but there was no going back. There never has been, not for him anyway._

_He'd already seen what's behind Door Number One, and he was equally as unimpressed with Door Number Two, so he moved on further down the hall and stopped in front of a sky blue door. The door opened without assistance, showing Dean nothing but bright, solid white, and his own voice came right on through it, a strangely numb voice: _I didn't love you, you know.

_Dean knew. He knew what this door was, and he didn't want to see, didn't want to relive it, but there were hands behind him, invisible hands, and they pushed him forward, drove him to his knees. The white light faded, evaporating into fog, and the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him here._

_His spot of frozen ground at Green Hill Cemetery. Sam unresponsive (dead) and staring at the cold, full moon._

He's dead, _he thought. _Sammy's dead, Sammy's dead. _Sammy was there, just lying there. Dad was unconscious. Sam was dead._

Dead_. It didn't sound right. _Dead. _It couldn't be right._

Dead. Sammy's dead. Sammy's dead. Sammy's dead.

_He couldn't think about anything else, couldn't get anywhere past those two words. _Dead. Sammy. Sammy. Dead. Sammy's dead. Sammy's DEAD. _It made no sense. It made no sense . . ._

Sammy's dead. Sammy's dead.

_Dean felt himself slipping away._

_He could hear a voice speaking in the darkness, and at first only barely recognized it as his own. "I didn't love you, you know," Dean said, looking at his brother, his silent, still (dead) brother. "When you first came home from the hospital, when they brought you home, I didn't want you. I wished you would just go back to wherever you came from." _

_Dean hadn't loved Sam like he was supposed to, and it was important Sam knew that. It was important Sam knew what a failure Dean had been._

Sam's dead (because of me) Sam (because of me) is dead, he's dead because I (killed) failed him.

_Dean looked at his Sammy, his little, 15 year old brother _(he never should have been here. He has a test; he needs to study) _and part of him knew that he had lost it, that he'd gone around the bend, but there wasn't really much he could do about that now. Sammy's was dead _(dead)_ and Dean was _(dead too)_ going nuts because that was just sort of thing you did, when you failed the only mission in life you ever had. When you let your brother get killed. When you killed your little brother._

_Dean talked to Sammy quietly, thinking of his mother and how disappointed she would have been in him. He hoped she didn't watch him, hoped she had no way of seeing his failures. He's sure she was proud of him, at one time, when she thought he was a good son. She hadn't known how much he had hated Sammy. She hadn't known how much he had resented the idea of even having a little brother._

_And that resentment . . . it had never gone away, not really. The hate, yeah . . . Dean loved Sam like nothing else, but the resentment? Dean couldn't ignore that. Dean resented the HELL out of always having to be the strong one, having to look out for Sammy, having to be the big brother. He wanted to have a childhood too; he wanted someone to look out for HIM. Sometimes he had been so silently furious at his brother . . . and maybe that's why this had happened. He hadn't tried hard enough. If he had, Sam wouldn't have been dead._

Sammy's dead, because I killed him. I killed him I killed him he's DEAD.

_The phone rang from behind him and Dean picked it up without even thinking about it. It was Pastor Jim calling, just checking in, making sure the hunt had gone fine, the boys were okay, that kind of thing. Dean knew Pastor Jim didn't approve of Dad bringing "children" on the hunt—Pastor Jim worried a lot, and sometimes, just sometimes, that made Dean feel a little special. He knew that was bad, knew he shouldn't WANT someone to be worried about him, but he couldn't help it. Sometimes, he liked the idea that there was someone other than Dad or Sammy who cared about him._

_That didn't matter now, of course. None of that mattered, because Sammy was still dead._

_Dean said hello to Pastor Jim and told him he was fine, everything was fine, but he must have been a lousy liar, because Pastor Jim had immediately gotten worried. He asked to speak to Dad and godDAMN, that was funny—Pastor Jim wanting to talk to Dad like Dad could fix this, like Dad could fix anything, like anybody could fix 'Sammy' and 'dead' being in the same sentence. Besides, even if Dad had some kind of magical power where he could resurrect his favorite son, he was down and out for the count—maybe even dying too. He'd be unconscious for a long time._

_So, no, Dad couldn't fix anything, the way Dean had always believed he could. He told Pastor Jim that, that Dad couldn't come to the phone right now, and for some reason that was even funnier, was the funniest fucking thing he'd ever heard in his whole damn life. _That's what you say, when you pick up the phone_, Dad had once said, however many years ago. _You tell them I can't come, but never that I'm not here. You never admit your position, Dean. Never admit your vulnerability.

There are monsters out there, Dean.

And your vulnerability is lying dead at your feet.

_Dean couldn't stop laughing and Pastor Jim sounded all kinds of frantic. Dean wasn't exactly sure why—he was feeling a little too dazed to really follow the conversation—but then Pastor Jim asked about Sammy. "Put Sammy on the phone, Dean. Can you do that? Can you do that, Dean?"_

_And suddenly things weren't so funny anymore._

Sam's dead. I killed him.

_Dean stared into his brother's sightless eyes._

"_No", he whispered. "No. Sammy can't talk either." He took a breath, only now conscious of the tears that had been running down his cheeks. "I failed him. I failed him."_

I killed my brother. I killed Sammy.

"_Listen to me, Dean. Whatever's happened . . . you did nothing wrong. You did not fail your brother, Dean. You didn't fail either of them. Dean, can you hear me? Dean, this is not your fault. I promise you that, son. I promise you . . ."_

_Pastor Jim kept talking, but Dean didn't hear any of it. He didn't want to hear any of it. He knew it was all wrong. Pastor Jim was a cool guy and all, but he didn't know what he was talking about. He might have known a lot about God, but there was no God here, not for the Winchesters._

_It was Dean's job, to protect his family. It was Dean's job to keep them together._

_But Sam was dead, Sam was dead, and Dean had failed, simple as that. The family was broken. Sam was dead. Sam was dead, and Dean was dead too._

_For all intensive purposes, anyway. For the rest . . . well, Dean could take care of that._

Sam's dead. Sam's dead, and I'm not going to live like this.

_Dean stared into Sam's eyes and said, "I have to go now, Pastor Jim." He felt a little like he was dreaming, like the phone wasn't real, Pastor Jim wasn't real. The only thing that was real was Sam in front of him . . . and maybe that was the way it had always been._

_In his head, somewhere, he could hear a voice. It was Sammy's voice, quiet, demanding attention. It wasn't the first time Mental Sammy had made an appearance, but it was the first time he had spoken so urgently._

Dean, you don't have to do this. Please don't do this, Dean, don't do this for me. Think of Dad, man. Dad's going to need you. You hold him up, man; you hold us up. Please don't leave him, Dean. Please don't do this to yourself.

_Sammy spoke and spoke, and on the phone Pastor Jim sang the same song, but Dean didn't want to hear it. Dean didn't want to hear anything. Sammy was DEAD, his brother was DEAD, and yeah, Dad would need him, but for the first time in his life, Dean didn't care. He didn't care what Dad needed. This wasn't about Dad, not tonight._

_This was about Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam and Sam was dead and that was all that mattered._

_Dean couldn't live without Sammy. And if he could, well, he didn't want to._

_Dean was ready. Dean was done._

_All that was left to do was finish the job. He told Pastor Jim to take care of his dad, because even though Dean couldn't do it anymore, Dad would need somebody. Pastor Jim pleaded with him, but he didn't understand that it was a lost cause. "I'm sorry," Dean said quietly and hung up._

_The phone started ringing again almost immediately, but Dean never heard it. He moved closer to his little, dead brother and brushed hair away from his open, fixed eyes. "It's okay," Dean said softly. "It's going to be okay."_

_He looked at the gun resting at his feet._

Yes, _he thought_, soon I'll make everything okay.

V.

Dean woke up, his head pounding . . . well, that was one way to put it, anyway. Really, his head was fuckin _screaming_, either from the vision or the hangover or some miserable combination of both. At first it was so bad that Dean couldn't even move, couldn't do anything but lie there and remember all the craptastic places that Sam kept taking them.

Jesus, yes, he remembered the graveyard, how he'd been all ready to kill himself because oh, boo-hoo, he'd failed Sammy. If Dad hadn't woken up when he did, if he'd been even two minutes later, Dean would be dead right now, a big fucking hole in the side of his head. But Dad had woken up, all bleary and concussed, and Dean had been irritated at his timing, sucky as fuckin usual.

He'd almost done it anyway, almost blew his head clean off his shoulders, but the soldier in him hadn't been able to resist, and he'd gone the way of dutiful son instead of suicidal brother. And then Dean saw Sam blink and Sam came back to life and there was happiness and puppies and blah blah blah—Dean was so freaking nauseous from the godamned _Hallmarkness_ of it that he almost threw up right there on his bed.

Instead, he managed to stagger to the bathroom and throw up there, resting his head against the cool, white tile. When he got up some time later, he drank from the half-finished bottle of tequila and opened the motel's tiny closet. Mini-Sam was sitting there, arms behind his back and staring at him, terrified.

The mini-Sam's name was actually Ryan—he was eleven, liked Spiderman and baseball—and he was currently missing one ear that Dean had cut off and tied to the palm of the kid's hand. The kid was bleeding from a number of places, but nothing fatal, at least, not yet. Dean was trying to improve his patience, learn how to prolong the moment instead of just outright killing—but it was hard work, required practice.

Ryan made for an excellent test dummy.

Dean smiled as he took out his knife (the one he slept with under his pillow, his favorite) and trailed the side of Ryan's face with it, smiling as Ryan tried to scream through his gag. "No one can hear you, you know," Dean said softly. "Even if I take out this gag . . . people ignore screams, place like this. People only stay here to fuck or to kill—it's really no place for a child like you."

The kid's eyes were wide, almost uncomprehending. His fear made Dean grin. Fear was almost as intoxicating as booze.

"My Dad took us here, my brother and I, when we were kids. Can you believe that, a father taking his children to a place like this?" Dean shook his head, almost fondly. "He was one screwed up guy, my dad. Some people shouldn't be parents, you know. Some people deserve to go to Hell."

Dean sliced into the boy's cheeks, making sideburns with the tip of his blade. "I wish I'd been able to kill the old man myself, but sometimes other people get all the fun." He took a swig of the tequila, savoring the burn, and smiled at Ryan as Ryan watched the knife.

"Still, this life?" Dean said. "It's not without its perks. See, my brother's coming soon, the one I mentioned before? His name's Sammy, looks a bit like you, only, you know, taller. Hell, they got full-blooded giants that are shorter than my freaking Sasquatch of a brother. He's all legs and puppy dog eyes and emo-angst-bullshit-emotion. Anyway, he's coming, cause he wants to save me from myself or something, so, I figure, I'm going to have some fun with him, you know, spending a little time bonding, getting reacquainted. I think it'll be fun, kind of like a family reunion. Family reunions are a normal thing. Sam's always wanted normal."

Dean rested the blade against the tape over Ryan's mouth, watched him as Ryan, helplessly, stared back. "You know, Sammy always talked too much," Dean said suddenly. "Always going off, and about the most random, geeky stuff. Real into tears and hugs, my brother—like some seven foot tall chick or something. You're not like that, are you? You don't drive your brother crazy by constantly flapping your gums?"

Ryan shook his head frantically, and Dean smiled as he tore off the tape. Predictably enough, Ryan started to scream, and Dean easily rested the tip of his blade at the corner of Ryan's eye.

Ryan quickly shut the fuck up. Dean lowered the blade to the side of Ryan's mouth, eyeing the boy's tongue.

"You know," Dean mused. "I don't know if a person can scream without a tongue. I mean, I think he'd be able to but, you know, I'm not sure. And I _want_ to be sure, I do, because ripping out a guy's tongue? Sounds like a lot of fun. Thing is, listening to someone scream is like the funnest thing of all, and if a guy couldn't scream without a tongue, well, I'm just not sure it'd be worth it. So, I figure, why not try it out once, see what it's like before the big finale with Sam? I so want to hear my little brother scream, and you know what they say, kid. Practice makes perfect, right?"

Ryan immediately started shaking his head, but Dean just smiled and held it steady with one hand. "Don't worry," he said, as Ryan started to cry. "Don't be scared, Ryan."

"It all ends, eventually."

VI.

Dean was watching a re-run of Family Guy on cable when the urge to piss got him off the bed and into the bathroom. He'd been bored as fuck the last few hours, watching TV mostly, and walking in front of the window every ten minutes. The pacing wasn't without a purpose—Dean knew his brother had crossed the border into Cali sometime today, and though he didn't know where Sam was at the moment, he knew his brother would be here soon. Wouldn't want to go through all the trouble of laying a trap only to have his prey unable to find the motel room. Still, waiting was dull work, and Dean was sick of the TV. He was sick of this motel room. He just wanted Sam to get here now.

_Soon_, he reminded. _Soon, it's all gonna be over._

Dean walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, and hummed The Doors quietly to himself as he pissed. And that was when he heard it, someone climbing through the open window, and he thought, _Jesus, Sammy, your stealth skills have always been for shit._

Even with Gordon Walker and being tied up to a chair . . . even then, Dean had heard Sammy, sneaking in quietly through the back. Dean had heard his brother even before Gordon did, although Gordon had heard him too, made them listen for the tripwire and the sound of Sammy exploding into a million pieces.

It wasn't that Sammy was completely useless; he'd been trained by their father, after all. It wasn't that Sammy wasn't good at this; it was just that Dean was so much _better_

Dean flushed the toilet and washed his hands (he'd been raised right, you know, for four years of his life, anyway) and then took the Colt out from under the sink, the Colt that the Demon had given him specifically to use against Sam. There was a certain poetic justice to that, though Dean didn't know much about poetics. He did know something about irony, though; his whole life had geared him for understanding that.

_No longer_, he thought to himself as he looked at the Colt. Today was the day that some changes were going to be made. His whole life had been one big fuck-up, one twisted mess of living solely for his baby brother. After today, things would be different. After today, he'd be free.

Dean opened the door with the Colt trained on Sam, who, predictably enough, looked shocked and stupid as always.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said with a grin.

"Miss me?"

TBC

A/N: I swear to God, I originally intended for the confrontation to happen _this_ chapter. Unfortunately, it was just gonna be too long, and I had to chop it in half. Sam versus Dean, next chapter, promise. And, as always, reviews are greatly appreciated.


	6. Say, Hallelujah

A/N: At one point, I thought I could finish this by the season 3 premiere. sighs Some definite hurtSam! here, for those of you who like that kind of thing.

THEN: Dean stole Sam's psychic abilities so that he could make a deal with the Demon, giving up a piece of his soul for Sam's safety. Since then, Dean has done some very, very bad things. Sam found the motel that Dean was staying at. Then he found himself standing at the barrels end of the Colt.

NOW:

The first thing that Sam noticed, of course, was his brother not ten feet in front of him, holding the Colt directly in line with the center of Sam's forehead.

The second thing he noticed was how _normal_ Dean looked. It was stupid, he knew, but Sam had almost expected something else, fangs or dark eyes or at least the requisite villain black clothing. But instead there Dean was, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and without the gun in his hands, you'd never know he was missing his soul.

Unless you looked at the center of the room. Then, the pool of blood might have tipped you off.

The blood pool wasn't fresh, or at the very least it wasn't wet. Dried and brown against the center of the carpet, and you might have mistaken it for coffee if you didn't know better.

Sam did know better. He also knew there was too much of it. There was blood spattered on the walls too . . . too much blood for just one person.

This was the first time Sam had seen Dean in weeks, and Dean had a gun on him, which was sort of important. But Sam couldn't take his eyes off the deep stain of blood . . . _and Jesus, how many people contributed to that?_

Dean noticed Sam noticing. "Housekeeping here kind of sucks," he said calmly. "But, you know, you can always tell the best parties by how much of a _bitch_ the cleanup is afterwards." He smiled slowly, waving his gun in the direction of the nearest bed. "Go ahead, sit down, Sammy. You and me, we oughta catch up."

Sitting down didn't appeal to Sam, you know, like, at _all_, but since Dean was the one with the trained gun right now, Sam didn't have much of a choice. Dean nodded, as if Sam had said something, and looked at the gun in Sam's hand.

"Speaking of that," Dean said quietly. The gun flew across the room into Dean's other hand.

"Sorry, little brother," Dean said, smiling. "Can't exactly trust you with a weapon right now. While you're at it, why don't you throw me the gun that's stowed in the back of your jeans. And the gun that's in your boot too." He tilted his head, as if listening to something. "Anything I'm missing?" he asked.

Sam smiled faintly. "Just the knives."

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "Always miss something."

"Those psychic powers can be a bitch, huh?" Sam tossed his weapons across the room. Truth was, he didn't mind giving up the guns and certainly not the knives, because there was something that Dean hadn't caught, something—_you can't think about that_. He cast his gaze around the room desperately, trying not to think _about that, not that, don't think about—_and his eyes drifted to the pool of blood, and then to Dean, and then back to the blood.

"So," Sam said softly, "looks like you've been busy."

Dean followed his gaze and then grinned like a maniac . . ._ pretty apt metaphor, when you think about it, _Dean-In-His-Head said. At another time, Sam might have corrected him about the metaphor (_it's a simile when you say 'like' or 'as,' you dumbass_) but right then he was just a little preoccupied with the whole my-brother-is-a-monster thing.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Well, you know, I had to pass the time somehow. Maybe if you'd gotten here a little sooner, Sammy, I wouldn't have had to kill all those people."

Sam swallowed hard—no, he didn't want to think about that either, not his brother as a killer—_for fuck's sake, Sam!_ Dean-In-His-Head shouted. _What the hell did you THINK your brother was doing? Late night binges, maybe some vandalism, singing Bad to the Bone at an unreasonable hour? You KNOW what Dean's become_

And he had, but he hadn't wanted to think about it. He'd spent the last two weeks _not_ thinking about it, avoiding the what-could-be's at every turn.

But now he was here and he couldn't turn away.

Sam met Dean's eyes with more than a little horror.

Dean smirked at him. "Oh, what's the matter?" he said, as if talking to a baby. "Big brother doing some naughty things . . . is that making ittle Sammy saaaaad?"

"You're not my brother," Sam snapped, and hated that this wasn't true.

Dean laughed. "Of course I am," he said. "What do you want—Dean's not here, Mrs. Torrance? Redrum, redrum." He laughed again, shaking his head. "I've always been a killer, Sam. I've always been a monster. All these memories you've been having of me . . . you'd think you'd have figured it out by now. Maybe you're not so bright, after all."

"You weren't a monster, Dean. You were always . . ." Sam trailed off, his brain catching up with everything that Dean had just said. "How did you . . . the memories, how did you know? How did you know about those?"

Dean tapped the side of his head. "Psychic, Sam, remember? Pick up a thought every now and then—you remember that little ability, right? The one you just happened to forget to share." Dean stepped a little closer, idly playing with the Colt in one hand. "Yeah, my head's been tuned into yours for the better part of a week. Man, you're a boring motherfucker; did you know that?"

Sam ignored this. "So you've been, what?" he asked. "Scanning my head, just listening to my memories for kicks?"

Dean looked disgusted. "Don't make it sound like it was on purpose, Sam. Trust me, I've got better ways to spend my time." There was a muffled sound then that Sam couldn't quite pinpoint, a thumping noise from somewhere that made Dean grin. "Like that," he said, still grinning at whatever sick joke that was in his head. "That, let me tell you, was _much_ more fun."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, what are you—" and then nothing. Sam broke off. The thumping noise started again, and Sam followed the sound back to the tiny closet.

He met Dean's eyes (_he's laughing, he's fucking LAUGHING_) and then was off the bed in an instant, marching over to the closet. Dean didn't even try to stop him (_of course not, this is the part of the game_) and stepped back a little, giving Sam room to open the door.

And—_oh God. Oh dear sweet God in fucking Heaven._

There was a little boy inside the closet, maybe ten, maybe older, and the best thing that Sam could say about him was that he was still alive. He was tied to the chair with his arms behind his back, bleeding in a half dozen places that Sam could see, and Sam didn't want to think about the places he couldn't see, how many cuts and bruises were hidden underneath his clothes.

Sam moved to inspect him and the kid released something like a scream—but it wasn't a scream, and at first, Sam didn't get why. He did understand the terror, though, _that_ came through just fine, and he put his hands in the air reflexively, showing him he was unarmed. "It's okay," he said, as soothingly as he could. "It's okay; I'm going to get us out of this." He tried to keep the touching to an absolute minimum, but he needed to see what Dean had done.

_And Christ, Christ . . ._

The kid had no ear. He had no ear, because Dean had chopped it off. It was tied to the palm of one the kid's hands, and that was the hand that wasn't missing three fingers. None of the cuts looked to be fatal (a lot of them weren't even that deep) but there were so fucking many, over his neck and arms and chest. And the kid whimpered as Sam examined him, whimpered in a way that Sam had never heard, and then the kid opened his mouth . . .

Dean had cut the boy's tongue out.

_Oh, Jesus. JesusJosephfuckingMarywept._

"I meant to kill him hours ago," Dean said, almost lazily, from behind him. "But you know, I was drinking a little, having some fun, and I passed out before I could—tied him up first, though, made sure he couldn't escape. You know, Dad taught us to be thorough." Dean's voice was mocking, almost bitter, but Sam couldn't turn around to look at him just then. "Anyway, I woke up, and I was all ready to finish the job, and then I had this brainwave, you know, this little _idea_ that popped into my head. And I was like, 'Wouldn't it be fun if Sammy got here first before I cut this kid's head off? Wouldn't it be a blast if Sam got a preview of, you know, the full show?"

Sam tried to take his eyes off the boy; he tried, but he just couldn't do it. "You know why I picked him, right?" Dean said quietly from behind him. "You know why it had to be him, why he was _destined_ to play this part?"

Sam knew. Who wouldn't—it was right there for anybody to see. Same nose, same cheekbones, hell, probably the same smile . . . although that kind of thing would be impossible to test anytime in the near future. Change the kid's eyes, darken the skin a little, and you had a miniature Sam sitting bleeding and broken before your very eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Sam whispered. He had no idea if the kid could hear him, if the kid could even comprehend what was happening, but it was all he had to offer. "I'm so sorry for all of this. I'm so sorry, I swear."

"No," Dean said coldly. "You haven't even begun to be sorry."

Then Sam was flying backwards across the room. And when the knives went straight through his palms, he screamed.

II.

_Well_, Sam thought, _it's not exactly crucifixion. _

Somehow, this failed to make him feel any better.

He was standing, pinned, against the motel wall, feet planted firmly on the ground. He couldn't lift them because there were knives going through the tops of his feet, effectively nailing him down to the floor. His arms were held out at the sides, also pinned to the wall by eight inch blades. He was in absolutely no risk of suffocation.

Dying, though, still seemed pretty likely.

Dean stood in front of him, smiling a little, obviously admiring his handiwork. His nose was still dripping blood that trickled down over his lips, making his smile even more feral. Sam had hoped that psychically tossing your brother across the room would induce one of those nosebleeds that just wouldn't stop, but today, it seemed, was not Sam's lucky day. Dean's bloody nose was clearly slowing, and oh yeah, Sam was still nearly crucified here.

Yeah. So, not one of Sam's better days, then.

Sam stared at him, silent and still. This wasn't the time to fight back, at least, not yet. Dean obviously had the upper hand right now, and Sam had to wait for his moment (_assuming you get one_, Dean-In-His-Head said, but Sam ignored him, trying to be an optimist). The knife in Sam's left hand was in _deep_—there was no way he was pulling that sucker out without a little help—but the one in his right hand was much more shallow, the blade only penetrating maybe an inch or two into the wall. Sam figured that he'd able to wrench it free, given a moment where Dean was somehow distracted, and then he could go for his last—_shut up! Shut up, shut up; Don't think about it, don't think—_

Sam watched Dean carefully, but Dean didn't seem to be picking up anything at the moment, obviously still busy gloating over a job well done. _Dude hasn't been watching enough Bond movies, _Dean-In-His-Head said. _Doesn't he know that nothing's over until the fat lady sings?_

Sam felt blood drip down his wrists and thought sourly, _I think she finished her solo twenty minutes ago, Dean_. Because try as he might, optimism was hard when you were practically crucified to a fucking _wall_

"You were always such a martyr, Sam," Dean said suddenly. "I really think you should be remembered that way." He smiled sweetly, patting Sam's cheek. "They're gonna remember you forever. I'll make sure of that."

Dean backed up slowly, watching Sam speculatively. "It's missing something," he said, overlooking his "masterpiece". "I'm not sure, but it's just . . ." Dean trailed off for a second, watching him. His gaze drifted to the top of Sam's head and he snapped his fingers, grinning again.

"Of course!" Dean said. "A crown of thorns! How could I forget something like that?"

Then the easy grin slid off Dean's face, fading into an almost comical pout. "I wish I thought of that ahead of time," he muttered. "You just don't find these things at Wal-Mart, you know?

Sam looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "I feel for you," he said. "I do."

Dean waved a hand. "That's all right," he said. "Just got to improvise, is all—hell, that's what huntin' is, half the time. Improvise, pull some crazy thing out of your ass." He frowned for a minute, studying Sam's face, and then suddenly grinned. "Oh, no. No, that is too friggin' _awesome_!"

Dean practically skipped across the room while Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on quelling a sudden burst of nausea. He didn't particularly want to know, at the moment, what his soulless, psychopathic brother thought was awesome. Dean wasn't going to give him a whole lot of choice, though. He came back, grinning.

He had a Burger King crown in one hand.

And somehow, of all the things that Dean had done, the blood on the floor and the boy in the closet and Sam next to crucified on a motel wall . . . it was ridiculous, but looking at the paper crown, and Sam's immediate reaction was, _That's just wrong_

Dean's grin threatened to split his face in half. "You said it, little brother," Dean laughed. He stepped forward and carefully placed the crown upon Sam's head, righting it when it tipped to the side.

"Now I think all we need is some music." Dean moved towards the side of the bed. On the nightstand was a small boom box. God knows where Dean had gotten it.

Dean flipped through some CD's and snapped his fingers before putting one in.

_Well I heard there was a secret chord  
That David played, and it pleased the Lord  
But you don't really care for music, do ya?  
Well it goes like this  
The fourth, the fifth  
The minor fall and the major lift  
The baffled king composing Hallelujah  
Hallelujah  
Hallelujah  
Hallelujah  
Hallelujah  
_

Dean walked back over to Sam, playing idly with a knife in his hands (_his favorite knife_, Sam realized belatedly, _the one he sleeps with under his pillow_.) He watched Sam for a minute as Sam helplessly stared back. Dean had a small, almost quizzical smile on his face.

"It's still not quite right," he said softly. "There's something missing. Something I can't quite . . . oh." Dean nodded. "Hell, I almost forgot entirely about that."

Then he took a step forward and shoved the knife directly into Sam's side.

"Not exactly the spear of destiny," Dean said as Sam screamed, "but, hey, what are you going to do, right?"

III.

_Well your faith was strong but you needed proof  
You saw her bathing on the roof  
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you  
She tied you to her kitchen chair  
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair  
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah _

Dean watched Sam's blood as it dripped from his knife to the floor, making semi-circles of red against the cream carpet. He had to wonder if you could draw pictures like that, like a fuckin paint-by-numbers book for the grown-up kids.

Dean thought that might be kind of fun. Sam still had a lot of blood to spill.

_Speaking of Sam_. Dean looked up and saw Sammy still staring at him, giving him that _Oh-my-god-my-own-brother-just-killed-me _look.

"Quit your bitchin," Dean said. "It ain't even all that deep." And it wasn't; Dean hadn't spent all that time practicing with little Ryan just to kill Sam in the first five minutes. It was tempting. . . God, was it tempting . . . but drawing the final act out provided its own little amusements.

Dean watched Sam clench his teeth, attempting to breathe normally in and out. It was fun, watching Sam manage the pain, because it had always been something he seriously sucked at. Oh, Dean was sure the kid could convince some old lady, maybe even most people, that he was fine, but Dean knew Sam better than anyone, even if he didn't want to.

_Well baby I've been here before  
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor  
I used to live alone before I knew ya  
_

"So," Dean said as Jeff Buckley crooned in the background, "I figured we could use this time to catch up, have a little bit of chat. I know you're always whining at me to open up, right, share my feelings, have a heart-to-heart. Well, this is your chance, man. You get me to open up . . ." he grinned as he prodded Sam's wound, ". . . and I get you to open up too. Sounds like fun, right?"

Sam took a sharp breath as Dean sliced into his skin, dragging the tip of the knife lightly across Sam's stomach. "I guess," Sam said, in between breaths, "that when I thought we'd . . .have this conversation . . . you wouldn't have me . . . crucified . . . to a fucking . . .motel. . .wall."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, well, next time you'll have to be a little more specific, won't you?" He laughed. "Besides, being crucified? So not even a big deal. Sure, it's a sucky way to go out, but you and me, the things we've seen? Crucifixion would be a dream, man, fucking pleasure cruise. So don't think for a second you're getting off that easy, cause I've got _plans_ for you."

Sammy lifted his chin then, as defiantly as one could while being nailed to a wall. "Yeah?" he asked, eyebrows raised high into his forehead. "Why don't you tell me about the Demon's plans?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "The Demon? Man, the Demon doesn't given a fuck about you. You aren't the Chosen One anymore, remember? Demon doesn't care if you live or die." He prodded Sam's open wound again, tearing the sides of it a little wider with his knife. "The shit that's going on right now? Just unfinished business between you and me."

Sam snorted, coughing more than laughing. "Whatever, dude," he said, breath still hitching a little. "You . . . you're like the Demon's . . . sideshow bitch." He had to pant to get the words out, but his eyes were clear with condescension. "It's still . . . jump and how high for you . . . isn't it, Dean? You're still a soldier, still . . . taking orders. Just the Demon instead of Dad, right? You're just . . . a fucking . . . lackey."

Dean backhanded Sam with his fist, smiling coldly as blood began to gush from his brother's nose. "I'm not taking orders from no one," he snarled. "Not from Dad or the Demon or even from you."

Sam's head, which had been lolling a little, snapped back up to stare at Dean incredulously. Dean snorted. "Yeah," Dean said. "Gimme that look now, but let me tell you something, I never ran the show with us. You always bitched that I did . . . what was it you said at the asylum? 'I'm getting pretty damn tired of following your orders', right?" Dean punched Sam again, this time against the jaw. "Called me pathetic, didn't you? Wasn't that what you said?"

Dean hit Sam again, and Sam spat out blood. "But you were right, you know, because I _was_ pathetic. Oh, I kept my game face on, pretended I was strong, pretended to be in charge, but we both know who had the power. Everything I've ever done, my entire life, everything I've done has been for you. I'd have jumped into fire if you had asked me to. I'd have done _anything_ if you asked me to."

"So, yeah. I was the pathetic one. I know you know that; I've remembered it with you." Sam opened his mouth, obviously attempting to speak, so Dean smacked him again before he could. "I was about to _kill_ myself because I thought I lost you. How sad is that, how _fucking pathetic_, right? I spent 22 years looking after you, trying to save you—22 years, and you what? Left me for college? Left me for some fucking dream world where you never even bothered to call? You wanted to be free, you wanted to be safe, but did you care if I was safe? Four years and you never called to make sure I hadn't kicked it in the middle of the night?"

"Dean—"

"You know, you only left that world because I begged you to, because Dad had gone missing. You ever wonder if _I_ had gone missing, would you have come? Would you have left your pretty little Jess for _me_?"

Sam tried to breathe, couldn't seem to make it happen. "Dean," he said, and Dean punched him again in the mouth.

"The Demon freed me," Dean said. "He freed me from you. Having to watch you, take care of you, make sure you don't get anyone else killed. Because that's what you do best, isn't it, Sammy? Get people killed? Isn't that what you do? You get it, don't you, that it's all pretty much your fault? Everything that's ever happened to us—wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been there. I could've been a normal kid, could've had a normal life—settled down, got married, had kids of my own. Mom, Dad, they'd both still be alive, and all the people I've killed? They'd be alive too. The little boy in the closet, he'd never know the darkness we've known, if you'd just never had been born, if you just died in your crib like you were supposed to. So, the way I figure it, I'm just restoring the balance, taking out something's that been alive 23 years longer than scheduled. What do you think of _that_, Sammy? What do you think of _that_ plan?"

There was a long moment of silence as Dean stared at Sam and Sam stared at Dean.

Then, abruptly, Sam started to laugh in his face.

He was crying, too, teardrops sliding silently down his cheeks, but Sam laughed at Dean, laughed whole-heartedly, which, dude, kind of annoying. "I . . . I can't believe it," he said, in between choked breaths and tears and laughter. "I can't . . . believe it. You're actually . . . you're so . . . dude, you're so evil monologuing me right now."

Dean froze completely where he was, knife barely an inch away from Sam's skin. He stared at his brother standing there, crucified and bleeding and fucking _laughing _at him.

Dean realized that Sam was right.

He started to laugh too.

"You know," Dean said, "I kind of am." He had to take a few steps back and let the knife fall to his side, laughing so hard that he bent over to put his hands on his knees. "You know, of all the things I thought I could never become, all the things I never dreamt of being . . . a serial killer who does evil monologues." Dean rubbed his hands over his face. "That's just fucking hilarious."

He straightened slowly, letting the laughter die down, although the good humor didn't fade entirely from his voice. "Still, you know, I can sort of see the appeal. I mean, it _is_ sort of fun, in a bad James Bond villain sort of way." He looked at the knife at his side, gleaming in his hand, and looked up at Sammy, who stopped laughing pretty quickly.

_Well maybe there's a God above  
But all I've ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot somebody who'd out drew ya_

"But," Dean said, "the whole psychological torture thing? You're right, it's not really my gig."

_And it's not a cry that you hear at night  
It's not somebody who's seen the light  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_

"This," he said, holding up the knife, "this is what I know how to do. This is what I was born to do. This is who I was meant to be."

_  
Hallelujah  
Hallelujah  
Hallelujah  
Hallelujah_

Dean stepped forward, the knife raised in his hand. "Hallelujah," he said. "Godamned fucking right."

He shoved the knife back into Sam's side.

Three things happened very quickly.

One: Sam screamed. Sam screamed to the heavens and, at the same time, head butted Dean . . . hard.

Two: Dean stumbled backwards, the knife dropping from his hand. Before he could really comprehend what had happened, Sam had pulled his right hand away from the wall. He reached for something strapped to his ankle.

Three: Dean saw the object, moved towards it, and was shot in the leg before he realized it was.

A honest-to-god motherfucking tranq gun.

"Oh, what the fu—"

Dean fell forward, landing hard on hands and knees, as Sam stood there, still mostly pinned to the wall. He was saying something, but Dean couldn't catch most of it—the world was starting to slide around him, the motel room going in and out of a glaring focus. The look on Sam's face, though, that was pretty clear—it was superior and condescending and pretty much _Sam_ through and through.

Dean called him a bitch and then toppled slowly to his side. His head _thunked_ against the carpet, but he never felt it.

Sam looked down at him, all superior, saying something about "psychic powers" and "guess you didn't see _that _one coming."

_Smug bastard_, Dean managed to think, and then thoughts were pretty much impossible.

IV.

Sam didn't move for almost ten minutes.

He knew he needed it to move. He needed to move now, get up, _suck_ it up, pull this godamned knife out of his left hand. He needed to dislodge himself from the floor, pull the knives out of the tops of his feet. He needed to tie up Dean. He needed to save Dean's soul. He needed to stomp over to the radio and break the Jeff Buckley CD into a million pieces.

Because he was bleeding because Dean was evil because he had tortured him because he was evil because Sam was hurt, _God_, how he hurt, he _hurt_, and the CD was stuck on repeat. Sam was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, because Dean was evil, and if he had to hear the word 'hallelujah' one more time, he might have to hurt somebody himself.

He needed to move, but he couldn't (even though he was bleeding, even though he needed help) he couldn't do anything but stare (even though the enemy wasn't secure). Dean, _Dean_ was the enemy now, and Sam needed to tie him up, restrain him physically, and the Dean-In-His-Head was screaming, _Get a fucking move on, Sammy_, but Sam couldn't seem to move anywhere.

Shock, he knew it was shock, not so much from the blood loss as from his brother, because he knew, he knew, he _knew_; he knew what to expect and he hadn't known at all. Dean was evil and Dean was soulless and Dean was (_his brother_) a monster just like any other, and Sam had known all that going in, but he still couldn't believe it. Missouri told him and Dean-In-His-Head told him, but there just weren't words for this. There was nothing that anybody could have said to prepare Sam for what Dean had become.

There was that thumping noise again, over and over, almost frantic, and Sam sluggishly moved his head toward the sound, only to see the boy in the closet. _Oh, God, the boy in the closet, I forgot, I forgot—_and suddenly, that was all the motivation Sam needed. He pulled the knife out of his left hand and didn't hold back on the scream. Nobody had heard his screams, anyhow. Nobody apparently cared, place like this.

"Hold on," Sam told the boy. "I'm going to help you. It's going to be okay."

The boy didn't nod, didn't look any less terrified, but he had stopped thumping his body into the wall. Sam bent down and pulled the knives out of his feet, letting loose a string of curses to make Dean proud. The thought alone nearly undid him, but he pushed it back, couldn't think about that right now. He looked at his brother, unconscious on the floor. He shouldn't wake up for hours, but still . . .

_Never turn your back on the enemy, son. _Dad's voice instead of Dean's, and Sam wanted to go straight to the boy, but Dad was right, at least, about this. _Never turn your back on the enemy unless it's over. Unless it's dead. _

But dead and Dean were not an option, so Sam tied up his brother instead.

As soon as that was done, Sam staggered slowly over to the boy. He knew he needed to patch himself up, that bleeding to death would do nobody any good, but none of the wounds were fatal, and they'd hold a bit, until he got this kid out. He limped to the closet and slowly undid the knots around the boy's wrists.

The boy never looked at him. He just stared at his feet, crying softly.

When Sam was done, he said, "Okay," and put a hesitant hand on the kid's shoulder. "It's okay, now, all right? It's all over. It's all over."

It was a lie, Sam knew it was—it'd never be over for this kid, not really—but maybe he didn't need to know that just yet. Maybe he could hold on to some hope for just a little bit longer.

The kid unsteadily rose to his feet and abruptly gave Sam a hug, holding on to his arms with a death grip that would have rivaled a python's.

Sam startled, but held on to the boy, rubbing his hair as soothingly as he could. "Hey," he said quietly. "It's okay. You're okay, now, you're okay."

The boy didn't say anything back, couldn't, of course (_because Dean ripped his tongue out, Jesus, Jesus, JESUS_) but Sam figured there wasn't much to say, and they stayed like that for awhile, hugging one another. Eventually, Sam pulled back and held the kid in front of him by the arms.

"Kid—" he started and then stopped. This kid had been through hell and back (_tortured, tortured, God, his fucking TONGUE_) and had earned the right to be called by his own damn name. It was a hard to be a 'kid' after something like this.

He looked around, saw the motel stationary on the bedside table, and picked it up, crossing back over to the boy. He gave the kid a pen and asked him softly, "What's your name?"

The kid held the pen in unsteady fingers—probably not left-handed, but losing three fingers could make the right a little useless—and managed to write 'RYAN' in shaky, capital letters.

"Ryan," Sam said, taking the pen and paper back. "Ryan, do you . . . do you believe in monsters?"

Ryan's nod was immediate, his eyes back to Dean. Sam gently took him by the chin and made him focus on Sam again. "I don't mean just like bad men," Sam said quietly. "I mean real monsters. Under the bed, in the closet monsters."

Ryan's eyes drifted back to Dean, but he nodded again, slowly.

Sam nodded to. "Okay," he said. "Okay." He put one hand to his chest. "My name's Sam. And that man who hurt you—his name is Dean. He's . . . he's my brother."

Ryan's eyes snapped back to Sam, suddenly looking petrified. "It's okay," Sam said again, although it wasn't. "Ryan, do you . . . do you have any brothers?"

Ryan nodded again, after a long hesitation.

"Okay, well, my brother, Dean? He's protected me my whole life. He's my big brother, you know, and he looks after me, saves me from the bad guys. See, we grew up with this stuff, fighting monsters, trying to help people. Only a couple of weeks ago, one of the monsters got my brother and turned him evil, turned him into one of them. Does that make any sense?"

Ryan's eyes were back to Dean. He nodded.

"Okay, so the thing is? Even though he's evil now, he's still Dean on the inside. Still good. And he can be fixed; I can fix him, make him my brother again. He won't be evil anymore. Can you understand that?"

Personally, Sam would be surprised if Ryan understood basic words at this point. He couldn't realistically expect this ten or twelve year old boy to understand that the man who had tortured him was anything other than evil. And everything he was saying wasn't, strictly speaking, true, but dammit, Ryan deserved some kind of explanation. _Something_ to explain why this had happened to him.

To his extreme surprise, Ryan nodded again, assuring that he understood. Sam looked at him for a minute before continuing, knowing that what he had to say was both important and equally unfair to ask.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital," Sam said. "And the doctors are going to make you better, and you're not going to have to see either of us ever again. I promise you that, Ryan. He'll never hurt you again, not ever."

Ryan shuddered a little and Sam didn't want to go on—but he did, because this was Dean, and he had to at least try.

"At the hospital, there are going to be a lot of cops, asking you questions. They're going to want to know who hurt you, how you got here, that kind of thing." Sam took a breath. "Now. . . I'm going to take my brother away from here, and I'm going to make it so he's a person again. And if telling the cops about him makes you feel safer, even the littlest bit safer, then you go ahead and do it. You've earned the right—you've more than earned the right. You can tell them whatever you want and I won't stop you. But . . . but if you think, if you believe me, about my brother, that . . . that he's good inside . . . then the cops don't need to know about him, cause it's not really him they're looking for."

Sam stared into the boy's eyes for a minute, holding the side of his face carefully. "Do you understand?" he asked him.

Ryan didn't respond. He turned his face away from Sam and stared at his feet, at the carpet, unmoving. When he finally raised his head again, he was crying again—he'd probably be crying for a long, long time.

Ryan took the pad and pen back from Sam and wrote, in big, shaky letters, 'ARE YOU GOING TO KILL THE REAL MONSTER, THE ONE WHO HURT ME?'

Sam swallowed hard, thinking of the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He thought of Jess and Mom. Dad and Dean.

Dean.

"Yes," Sam said firmly. "Yes, I'm going to kill him.

And Ryan nodded slowly again.

'OKAY' he wrote, 'I WON'T TELL.'

TBC

A/N: Lyrics from Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." Hopefully, next chap will be up in about a week or so.


	7. Because You're Mine

THEN: Led by Missouri's psychic breadcrumbs, Sam found the trail to Dean. Dean, who is not very nice without a piece of his soul, tortured both him and a young boy named Ryan. Sam escaped, knocked Dean out, and convinced the little boy to not go to the authorities with Dean's description.

NOW:

I.

The sun was just starting to set. Sam sat on the edge of a bed (another motel, so many motels, but this one was different, this one didn't come with blood). He watched his brother silently, on the opposite bed, still asleep.

Sam had tied Dean's arms and legs to the frame. Three times. Triple knots.

Sam sighed and turned away from him, back to his research, mostly scattered and confused. In between drinking and visiting Missouri and remembering old times and getting tortured, Sam _had_ done a little research, although he hadn't gotten very far. The whole get Dean's soul back thing? Pretty much zilch on that.

The spell Dean had used to take Sam's power? That was what Sam had.

Dean on his own was dangerous. Dean without a soul was terrifying. Dean without a soul, with the ability of premonitions, telekinesis, and random thought-snatching? Letting that Dean walk around was just a recipe to get yourself killed. Sam could keep doping his brother up, keep knocking Dean out so he couldn't attack, but sooner or later he'd slip up. It was just the nature of the game.

Sam needed to get the upper hand back now. He didn't know how to save Dean, so at the very least, he could get his powers back. That was the first step.

Of course, this plan was potentially problematic. Magic could be a tricky thing; you had to be careful with how you used it. You could change things around, make substitutions when you knew what you were doing, but Sam had only dabbled in spell work, and wasn't confident in his ability to improvise. Certain things (Sponge Bob placement instead of an altar cloth, for instance) were pretty easy to switch around. Other things, not so much.

Unfortunately, Sam didn't have much of a choice. Most of what he needed was easy—few herbs, candles, not much to it. He already had the piece of obsidian; the rest of the components were a piece of cake. Unfortunately, what Sam didn't have was time.

The spell was supposed to take place during the New Moon.

The New Moon wouldn't come up for another two weeks.

Sam couldn't wait that long. Trying to would be suicidal—even if he had a pharmacy full of tranquilizers (which he didn't)—something would go wrong. Something always did.

No, Sam would have to try this spell out tonight. He'd have to hope that the influence of the New Moon was only minor at best, wouldn't aversely affect the outcome.

Although, if Missouri were to be believed, the presence of the New Moon wasn't his biggest problem.

When he'd been at her house, Sam had asked Missouri about the spell. He needed to know if it could be cast again, work to undo the damage which had been done.

Missouri had been hesitant at best.

"You have to understand, Sam. I don't cast spells. My ability is natural, just like yours." Sam's mouth had twisted bitterly there; he had his doubts about just where his abilities came from. Missouri might have picked up on it, but she kept on talking. "I could only guess to the effects of such a spell."

"Then guess," Sam said, quietly, desperately, because desperation was pretty much what he'd been living on for the past week and half.

Missouri had taken him into the living room, forced him to sit down again. Sam had had some trouble keeping still; stillness meant inaction, meant not helping Dean. "Well," she said, "from the looks of it—yes, the spell should work. There's nothing in here that seems to prohibit using this spell against the one who cast it upon you."

Sam rose, excited, and Missouri quickly leaned forward. "But Sam," she said. "Magic ain't like tossing a yo-yo. It doesn't always swing back and forth the way you think it will."

Sam sat back down. "So it won't work?"

"I didn't say that, Sam. I said it might not." Missouri shook her head, leaned back a bit in her chair. "Magic is a tricky thing. It has a way of creeping into your being, of becoming a part of you, an inseparable piece of who you _are_. You can try to take the magic back, Sam, but I'm just warning you: it might not turn out exactly as you hope."

Sam had swallowed at that. "What do you mean?" he had asked. "Could he get worse?"

Missouri had looked away. "Sam, I get the feeling that there's not much of anything that could make your brother worse."

_She was right about that one_, Dean-In-His-Head said now. _Little Ryan, man? Can't get much worse than that._

Sam stood up quickly (he didn't want to think about Ryan anymore) and had to reach a hand out, trying to maintain his balance. He was dizzy as hell from the blood loss, stood very still until it had passed. After dropping Ryan off at the hospital, Sam had driven to a new city, found a new motel where he could patch himself up—but he'd still lost a lot of damn blood, and he was the feeling the effects right about now.

_Not yet_, he told himself. _You have to wait, hold on, hold on . . .gotta . . . gotta do this thing first, make sure Dean's . . . Dean's out, stays out . . . wait . . . pass out AFTER . . ._

The world slid back into place, and Sam let his hands drop to the side. Briefly, he wished his father were here. John Winchester could take care of this. At the very least, he could watch Dean while Sam passed out on the floor. But there was a flicker of doubt there, a moment of uncertainty (_I mean, the way he raised us to hate those things, and man, I hate 'em, I do)_ and what would Dad do, if he saw what Dean had become? _Would_ he find a way to fix it? Or would Dean just be another fallen soldier along the way?

_Dean did a good job, took care of Sammy. Now the only thing left is to finish the job, finish Dean._

Sam shook the thought away, pushing his father out of his mind. It didn't matter what Dad would have done—saved him or killed him, Dad was dead. Dad was dead and Sam was on his own. He had to get his brother back by himself.

Sam took out everything he needed for the spell, put them in place, and then stepped over to his brother. Dean was shifting around restlessly, starting to come around.

_I'm going to fix this_, Sam thought. _I'm going to fix you, Dean._

_Because we got work to do. And I'm not doing it on my own._

II.

Dean had been knocked out by drugs more than once in his life, so he knew the slow, muddled spin was his mind trying to return to consciousness. Right now, being conscious had like less than zero appeal, but his body ignored his desire to slip back into the darkness. He opened his eyes slowly, the gray, fuzzy world focusing into a single face above him.

"Oh, it's you," Dean said, or tried to say—speaking clearly wasn't quite on the menu yet. His tongue felt thick, maybe two times its normal size, and his lips were dry and slightly numb. He concentrated on glaring at his sonofabitch brother, but even that was hard because Sam's face looked kind of . . . shiny?

So, clearly, Dean had made this mistake of every mustache-twirling villain out there—he'd had too much fun with the monologue and not enough with _killing Sam already_. Jesus, he knew better than that . . . but the torture had been so much fun, and he'd really wanted to work up to it . . . well, now, he knew what came from that.

Still, Dean had only been full-on evil for, what? About two weeks now? He was bound to make mistakes. These things happened. You moved on. As soon as Dean got out of this, he'd be remedying that error in judgment. He'd tear Sam's head off from his fucking shoulders—try coming back from _that_, you emo fuck.

Besides, if he was a head shorter, Sam might be back at a height where humans lived. The thought made Dean smile. He'd always wanted to give his brother a hair cut.

Of course, there were problems standing in the way. The fact that he was currently having trouble thinking in complete sentences was one of them. It also looked like Sam had gone a little overkill with the knots. Dean tugged uselessly against his restraints and then quickly gave up.

He could see his knife from across the room, resting on the TV stand. He should have been able to make it fly straight into his hand, but his crazy psychic powers seemed to have deserted him. _Must be the drugs_, he thought, and then lost his train of thought—the knife _gleamed_, it was so shiny, so ready to be used—and then Sam was saying, "Hey," and Dean slid his eyes lazily back to his brother, knowing that time must have passed but not having anyway to determine how much.

Sam looked _bad_, unnaturally pale and limping as he moved around the bed. He had one hand pressed to his side, the side that Dean had stabbed over and over again. It was nice to see that his fun hadn't gone entirely to waste—Sam was definitely hurting, looked none too steady on his feet—but even though the bastard was probably two seconds from passing out, Dean had no way of moving, no way of breaking free.

Dean was trapped. He knew it, and Sam knew it.

On the table behind Sam were some candles. Also, a piece of obsidian.

Dean closed his eyes, groaned. "You are _such_ a pain in the ass," he said.

Sam almost smirked. "Yeah, and who do you suppose I get that from?" There was a needle in Sam's hand, and he tapped it firmly twice before walking a little unsteadily towards Dean. "Don't worry, Dean," he said as he slid the needle in. "I'm going to fix this. I'm going to take care of you."

There wasn't time for a witty retort; the world was already fading to darkness again. "Oh, fuck off," Dean managed to say, and then everything around him disappeared again.

III

He was standing in the tangerine hallway again, only somehow he knew that Sam hadn't brought him here this time. This time, he could only blame his own subconscious—and fuck his subconscious. He'd never seen the point in having one, anyway.

He didn't want to be here, but the door behind him was locked, so he'd have to find another exit if he wanted to escape. And there were so many escapes from this hallway, but they all led backwards into the past, places he never wanted to visit again, never wanted to remember.

He wandered aimlessly down the hallway for what seemed like hours. He'd figured there'd have to be an end somewhere—fuck, he'd only been alive for 28 years—surely it couldn't go on forever, surely there had to be an end to the doors somewhere. But he couldn't find one—the hall just went on and on and on, and there were suddenly speakers on the ceiling, Jim Morrison singing, "_He walked on down the hall."_

" _And he came to a door. And he looked inside._"

Dean knew then that this was the answer. It was the only way that he was getting out of this fucking hallway. He'd have to go through a door, any door, back into the past—it was the only way back to the future, him and Marty McFuckingFly. There was no logic behind it, just something Dean spontaneously knew, the way you knew in dreams. The way things just made _sense_.

He approached a blue door that was slightly open, and peeked carefully into it, not wanting to walk into the dark blindly. He recognized the room instantly; he'd been in there just earlier today, only now he was looking at the motel room 17 years into the past. This wasn't a good place to go; Dean _knew_ that, but something kept him there. Something kept him from turning away. It was a bad idea, on all counts.

Dean watched an eleven year old version of himself sitting on the couch, reading a book. He couldn't see it from here, but _he knew Sammy was in the other room, sleeping soundly away. It was late, and Dad had been gone awhile, didn't know when to expect him home._

_Mini-Dean glanced up at the door every few minutes. He didn't want his father to come home and catching him reading, at least not this book. A part of him knew that this was stupid—Dad probably wouldn't even remember it, but if he did . . . it would be a bad idea to let Dad see it at all._

_So, reading it on the couch, in full view from the front door? It was a pretty lousy idea, pretty godamned reckless, even for Dean. But Dean did it anyway, ignoring the voice in his head (it was Sam's voice, always that too-serious, little boy tone in the corner of his mind: Dean, this is a bad idea. Dean, just read the book at school or something.)_

_Later, in one of those boring moments of introspection, moments that Dean tried to leave to Sam whenever possible, he had to sit down and consider the possibility that maybe he had wanted to be caught. That whole subconscious thing again, annoying fuck that it was. Maybe Dean had wanted his dad to walk in, wanted him to recognize the book._

_Because sometimes Dean needed to talk—not often, words could be dangerous things, he knew—but sometimes, when it was late and he was thinking about her, he needed someone to tell him things, someone who actually remembered. Dean remembered so little himself; it seemed like he was forgetting more and more every day. He wanted Dad to remind him, but it was nothing that he could ever ask._

_Maybe if Dad came in, he'd force Dean to talk, and things could be better than they were right now._

_Or maybe Dean just got absorbed in his book and his thoughts, and he didn't react quickly enough when his dad walked in._

_Dad was drunk—really, really drunk, didn't need to even look up to confirm the knowledge. Dean could smell it—it was a pretty familiar smell, maybe not quite as common as blood or sweat, but definitely not rare. Dean set his book down, but not quite quickly enough. Dad staggered over, picked it up with one clumsy hand._

"_The hell's _this_?" Dad slurred as he examined it with bleary eyes. Mental Sammy, indignant and traitorous to the last, piped up in Dean's brain: I'm surprised he could even READ it. But read it, he could, and Mental Sammy wasn't helping. Dean tried to snatch the book, but Dad held it away, glaring at him._

"_Dean! Boy, where the hell did you get this?"_

_Dean swallowed convulsively and the sudden intake of air went down wrong. "It's just a book, Dad," he whispered, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. "It's just, it's just a book. C'mon, you should get to bed—"_

"_Get the fuck off me!" Dad pulled his arm hard away from Dean, so hard Dean stumbled back. "'m the fuckin Dad around here, 'm the one who's tellin, give the godamned orders here, tellin, tellin me . . ."_

"_Dad . . ."_

_Dad held the book high in one hand. "I give the orders, godammit, not you. You don't tell me a godamned thing. Where'd you get this book, Dean? Tell me!"_

But_, Mental Sammy pouted, _you don't want me to tell you a godamned thing . . .

Shut up, Sammy. Shut up NOW

"_Tell me!"_

"_I just—the library, Dad, okay, I just—I picked it up and—look, I'll get rid of it, all right? I'll just, I'll get rid of it, just, I just wanted—"_

"_You're godamned right, you'll get rid of it!" Dad held the book in both hands and started ripping the pages, lurching unsteadily as the papers scattered to the floor. And Dean shrieked, he actually shrieked, because it was important to him, dammit. She had read this to him. This was her book. Sure, it was just a copy; the real one had burned away with his mother, but Dean couldn't stand seeing it destroyed like that. He just, he couldn't._

_So he tried to take the book back, and this time Dad knocked him across the room for it._

"I don't remember that," a voice said quietly from behind him. Behind _him_, the Dean in the doorway, not the child, memory version knocked over on his ass. Dean turned around to see the grown-up Sam standing there, the one who had gotten so freakishly tall, the one who Dean was itching to finally kill. There was a piece of obsidian in that brother's hand, and Dean knew that was somehow important, but he couldn't remember why, so he decided to ignore it.

"I don't remember that," Sam repeated, sounding more than a little horrified. "I don't . .. I don't remember . . . did that really happen?"

Dean snorted and abruptly shut the blue door; he didn't need to see the rest to remember what had happened. "You were asleep," Dean said flatly. "You were always fucking asleep. You slept through everything, but it all happened. It all happened, and you were too fucking selfish to notice."

Sam looked down then, at his feet. "I'm sorry," he barely whispered. "I wish I had noticed, what you did for me. I wish I didn't understand everything in retrospect."

Dean shook his head, glared at his brother. "Whatever," he said sourly. "I don't want your fucking apologies. I don't want your fucking _words_, Sam."

"Then what do you want?"

"From you? Just blood."

Sam winced a little, looked down again. "Sorry," he said. "Can't give you that." He flipped the piece of obsidian over, looked down at it carefully. "The only thing I can give you is your soul. Not yet, I don't have it yet, but soon."

Dean growled at him. "God, won't you fucking listen, Sam? I don't want it! I don't want my soul back!"

Sam smiled sadly. "Sorry," he repeated. "That's really not up to you."

Then he slammed the piece of obsidian onto Dean's forehead, and the doors, all the doors, they finally went away.

IV.

Sam's eyes snapped open, and he immediately fell forward. He landed mostly on Dean, but Dean's eyelids didn't even flicker. That was the good thing about drugged sleep; elephants could be stampeding around and you wouldn't wake up. Sam was thinking that such a sleep sounded pretty damn perfect right about now.

He groaned and rolled himself away, accidentally rolling himself right off the bed. He landed on the ground hard, his head smacking against the floor with a loud _thunk_.

Sam briefly contemplated getting up and then quickly decided that movement, of any kind, was a very bad idea. Dean was out, would be for awhile, and Sam thought that he might enjoy keeling over and dying right now. His head was just _killing_ him, either from the spell or from whacking it against the floor, and his whole body felt shaky, strange. Weak. He felt so weak.

Sam felt something wet against his lips and cheek and wondered, dazedly, if he was drooling. He put a hand to his face and came away with red fingers. It took him a few minutes to realize his nose was bleeding.

It wasn't the only part of him that was, though. The side of his stomach was red too, really red, like, a _lot_ of blood, so the knife wound must have reopened. He wasn't sure when that happened, if it was before or after the spell, but he wasn't sure it mattered. It didn't seem like a lot mattered, at the moment.

The world felt fuzzy all around him. It seemed like as good a time as any to pass out.

But God, it seemed, had different ideas, because there was this noise keeping him from falling asleep. It was like . . . voices . . . or something . . . coming from somewhere in the room. It couldn't be Dean. Could someone have come in? He thought it might be the police, but the police didn't usually sing like that, so maybe it was the radio? A few more friendly hallelujahs? But he had turned off the radio, had left it behind, actually, so who the hell was callin—

_Cell phone._

Slowly, Sam rolled over and reached blindly for the cell phone that was resting on the bedside table. He knocked over the alarm clock and the syringe before his fingers finally fastened on the phone. He flicked it open and held it to his ear, unsteadily getting to his knees. "Yeah?" he asked roughly. He was too busy staying conscious to worry about being polite.

"Sam?" The voice was familiar, warm, feminine . . . but he couldn't place it. "Sam, child, it's Missouri." _Oh, okay then_.

"Sam, I know you're hurting, but you need to hold on for a little bit. I sensed you—sensed you awhile ago, what you were doing. I'm sending you help, you hear?"

Sam heard but didn't really understand; the words weren't making much sense in his brain. The edges of his vision were starting to go dark, like a photograph burning away at the sides. "Missouri?" he asked thickly. Why was she calling again? "You're . . . you're okay?"

He heard her take a breath. She sounded worried, although he wasn't sure why. Maybe something had found her, maybe she needed help. "You're okay?" he asked again.

"I'm fine, Sam, just fine. Don't you be worrying about an old psychic like me now. You just got to concentrate on staying awake. I've sent someone to take care of you, okay?"

_Someone to take care of you_ . . . but that didn't make sense, because the only person who took care of him was Dean. And Dean was sort of unconscious right now, and evil besides, and Sam was supposed to be taking care of him for once. _It's supposed to be my turn . . ._

There was a dull sort of roar in his ears, a roar that was slowly building, and he wasn't sure what it was, maybe the ocean, maybe his heartbeat. It occurred to him slowly that Missouri might know; she seemed to have all the answers. He opened his mouth to ask when he realized he had dropped the phone.

Too sluggish to even contemplate moving, Sam just looked at the phone and watched it spring back to his hand. "Oh, good," he said faintly. "You worked, at least. That's, that's good." Then he dropped the phone again.

There was a knocking sound coming from somewhere. _Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door_, Dean-In-His-Head sang nonsensically, and Sam knew things were bad when even the Dean-In-His-Head started to sound delirious. The knocking was important, and Sam knew he needed to figure out what it was—the cops, maybe? Maybe they found out about Ryan after all. Sam hadn't told Ryan where he was going, but maybe they found a trail or a clue or something. Sam didn't remember leaving clues. His dad taught him to be careful about that kind of thing.

If it wasn't the cops—couldn't be Dean. Dean was here, unconscious on the bed. And Missouri was on the phone and Dad was dead and Jessica was dead and everybody was dead . . . so who was calling, "Sam? Dean? Sam, Sam!" like their life depended on an answer.

Whoever it was sounded so damn worried that it made Sam feel pretty worried too. He managed to pull himself up to his feet, forgetting about the phone resting on the carpet. He staggered almost sideways over to the door and managed to unlock it with clumsy, numb fingers. When he opened the door, he stared at the person staring at him from the other side.

"Hey," he slurred. "What're you doin here?"

Then he fell headfirst into the man's arms.

TBC


	8. A Slight Possibility of Side Effects

A/N: Whew. I think only three or four more chapters to go. (And to think, when I told myself to get it done by the end of the year, I was joking. shakes head and sighs)

THEN: Dean tortures Sam until Sam finally manages to get the upper hand. After he knocks him out, Sam uses the same spell Dean did to get his powers back. Unfortunately, Sam is still losing blood from his earlier fun with Dean, and is completely disoriented when someone shows up at the door.

NOW:

I.

Sam sat on a swing in a deserted playground, not swinging, just sitting and watching his feet. The landscape seemed faded, like an old photograph. Everything and everyone in it was gray.

Sam was the only adult there, amidst the gray children. He was also the only one that was still alive.

_Miss Mary Mack-Mack-Mack all dressed in black-black-black with silver buttons-buttons-buttons all down her back-back-back . . ._

There was a shotgun full of rock salt lying near his feet, but he didn't move to pick it up. The fifty or so ghost kids _were_ a little creepy, but they weren't doing anything to endanger him. For the most part, they were ignoring him completely, playing their games and singing their songs. Kids swung on the monkey bars and flickered out of existence when they fell; others appeared and disappeared intermittently during a game of hide n seek.

A part of Sam felt like grabbing the shotgun anyway; old habits die hard, and he felt a little exposed like this, but he didn't because he felt sorry for them, these children who didn't get to grow up. They didn't want to hurt anybody; all they wanted to do was play, because that was _their_ unfinished business, their one last regret. These children didn't get the chance to grow out of things like monkey bars; they died before they were ready, died before their time.

Now they had all the time in the world, and they used it to play games.

_. . . she asked her mother-mother-mother for fifty cents-cents-cents to see the elephant-elephant-elephant jump over the fence-fence-fence . . ._

Sam had lived into adulthood, but sometimes he wished he'd had more of an opportunity to play. Silly games, things that didn't involve hunting, didn't involve beasts or cockroaches or outrunning Child Protective Services. He wished he'd had more time to just act like a damn kid. His childhood had been a short thing, and he knew Dean's had been even shorter.

"God," Dean said, out of nowhere. "You're not going to start crying, are you? Cause, dude, I could be in a thousand better places right now, not sitting with my emo brother in some spooky ass playground."

Sam turned his head to see Dean standing, casually leaning against the swings. He was as gray as the rest of the world, save for hazel eyes and bright red tennis shoes. "When did you get here?" Sam asked, confused.

"Oh, I've been around for just about forever, now." Dean pushed himself off of the bar and sat down in the empty swing next to Sam. "Seriously, Sammy, ghost kids? Why can't you ever drag us to beach in Tahiti or something?"

Dean looked out over the gray expanse, and Sam watched him, scrutinizing his features. "You're not really Dean," he realized suddenly. "You're just the Dean-In-My-Head, aren't you?"

Dean shrugged at that. "I'm real enough," he said. "Anyway, _that_ Dean, the one you got out there? He's just about as real as I am. He's got our body and I've got our soul, so it's like having a whole brother. You know, only not." He took out a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, the smoke looking blue as it twirled above their heads. "Probably shouldn't have started these again," Dean said. "But hey, when you're evil, you gotta look the part, right?"

One of the ghosts loomed closer to them, attracted by the blue smoke. Sam thought she looked a little like Missy Bender, just a little less demented and a little more dead. "Hey!" Dean shouted at her suddenly. "The living people got some business here. Move your creepy ass along. Go kill somebody or play jump rope or something."

The girl gave a started flicker and disappeared out of existence. Sam rolled his eyes reproachfully. "Nice, Dean. Real compassionate."

"Fuck off," Dean said easily.

They sat in a comfortable silence for awhile, thinking of nothing and listening to the children's rhymes. (. . ._ he jumped so high-high-high he hit the sky-sky-sky_ . . .) Sam watched the ghosts play various games, from hopscotch to four-square to something that looked vaguely like dodgeball. They had just started to play Red Rover, Red Rover when Dean spoke up again.

"You know this is just a dream, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I know it."

Dean smiled sadly. "Good dreams are hard," he said. "They're so much harder than nightmares. Nightmares aren't a big deal. I mean, yeah, they suck, but you wake up, you know? Sometimes, you dream a dream so good, you just never want to wake up."

He put out his cigarette, immediately lit another. "I know nightmares were always your thing, but good dreams? Those were always mine. I got tired of dreaming of a perfect world. I just got _tired_, you know?" Dean kicked at the sand under his feet, shifting his body minutely in the swing. "That's why the Djinn sucked so godamned hard. It's a little like getting ripped out of Heaven, I think."

"This could be Heaven," Sam said softly. "This could be just . . . a place to rest."

Dean looked around at the skipping ghosts, the shades of gray upon gray upon gray. "You got a creepy ass idea of what Heaven looks like, Sammy."

"You're here," Sam said simply. "You're here and I'm here and we're both okay. That's all I really need anymore, Dean. That's all I really want. That's not so much to ask, I don't think. I just want to stay here, Dean. I just want to stay here. I don't want to wake up."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I know. But that's not exactly up to you. Even if it was . . . you're not just gonna leave me like that, are you?"

_. . . and _(Sam) _he never came back-back-back till the _(Sam, wake) _fourth of July-July-July_ (up).

Sam turned his head at the sound of his name, floating through the wind with the children's rhymes, but there was nothing to see, nobody here, but him and Dean and fifty dead kids. He turned back to Dean, who had stood up. "You're going to leave soon," Dean said.

"I don't want to," Sam said. "Please don't make me, Dean. Don't make me leave."

"That's not up to me, either," Dean said. "One way or another, you're going to leave. You're going to leave me; everybody leaves me. You just . . . you gotta promise not to leave me like _that_." Sam tried to speak, but Dean cut him off. "I don't want to be like that, not the way I am out there. You gotta promise me you'll take care of this, Sam."

Sam glared at him. "I'm not going to kill you, Dean," he said sharply. "I wish you'd stop fucking asking me too."

Dean smirked. "Yeah," he said. "Well, now you know how it feels, jackass."

Sam shook his head. (_Sam, come on, son, wake)_ "I don't want to talk about this," he said. "Can't we just . . . can't we just play, please, Dean?" He took Dean's hand and dragged him to the game of Red Rover, where the ghosts easily parted and let them join in. He and Dean took opposite sides and stared at each other as the kids chanted.

_Red Rover, Red Rover, send Dean Winchester right over . . ._

_(up, Sam, come on, now, it's time to)_

"I don't want to die," Dean said. "I don't want to die, but Sam, it's better than this. Death is better than this."

"I can fix you," Sam whispered.

"If you can't—"

"I can."

"If you can't. If you can't, you have to let me go." Dean broke from his line, ran straight at Sam's arm. "If you can't—"

_(wake up, Sam. Can you hear me boy, wake up)_

"If you can't, please save me. Please kill me to save me."

Sam caught Dean with his arm, didn't let his brother get through.

"I'm not letting you go," he whispered.

"Wake up," Dean replied.

II.

"Sam? That's it, boy, wake up. You with me now, son?"

Sam groaned. "No," he muttered, pressing his hands over is eyes. His head hurt like a sonofabitch, and that was nothing compared to the stabbing pain in his side. Reluctantly, he pulled his hands away from his face and was left blinking in the afternoon glare. When the world refocused into something other than white, he found himself staring upwards into Bobby's face.

"Bobby," he said, the name pure _relief_ on his tongue. Sam had a vague recollection of opening the motel door, falling forward into the hunter's arms. "Thought you might've been a dream," he murmured as he struggled to sit up. He didn't do particularly well.

Bobby placed gentle, restraining hands on Sam's shoulders. "Easy now," he said. "You've lost a lot of blood. Tends to make the body a mite tired, even after it's been patched up." Sam looked down at his bare stomach to see new gauze over his wounds, obviously Bobby's meticulous dressings.

"Don't expect to see you dyin anytime today," Bobby told him firmly, not so much observing but _informing_ Sam that he would do no such thing. "Still, you need to get your rest. The body can only take so much."

_Got that right_, Sam thought, thinking of Ryan. God, Ryan, his ear, his _tongue_—

"Dean," Sam said urgently, trying to get up again. This time, Bobby wasn't so gentle when he pushed him back to the bed. "No," Sam said. "Dean, Dean, he's—"

"Out like a light," Bobby said, "due to some good drugs or a certain spell." He frowned down at Sam, disapproval written all over his face. "Dammit, Sam, I thought you knew better than to be messing around with witchcraft like that. Ignoring the lunar cycle, just casting when you damn well please—"

"Well, it worked," Sam said, lifting one shoulder in an awkward shrug. "Anyway, I didn't have much of a choice, Bobby." He shifted himself upwards slowly but kept his eyes down on the mattress. "Bobby, you know Dean's . . . well. . .Dean's—"

"I know," Bobby said quietly. "Missouri filled me in." Sam thought about asking how Missouri knew Bobby (was it through their dad? was it through someone else?) but Bobby was shaking his head, looking more sad than angry. "Dammit, Sam," Bobby said again. "Son, why didn't you call me?"

Sam looked away then, swallowing, unable to meet the near-grief written on Bobby's face. He had wanted to, God, he had wanted to, and Lord knew he could have used the help. It wasn't like Bobby was just another hunter—Bobby was family, even if he wasn't a Winchester. He had wanted to be able to trust Bobby, lean on Bobby, and the fact that he hadn't made him both ashamed and angry.

"I couldn't," Sam said, now looking at the ceiling, anything other than Bobby's face. "I couldn't—I couldn't risk it, not if you thought Dean needed—if you thought he needed to be—" _put down_, were the words that instantly came to mind, but Sam couldn't utter them in connection with his brother's name.

"I was scared and I needed to save him, Bobby, and I couldn't let anyone stop me from saving him. Bobby, man, he did this for _me_, he did it to protect me, to _save_ me, and I couldn't—I couldn't let him stay like this, not for me, man, not after everything he's done—he's _good_, Bobby, Dean's _good, _and I—I couldn't let myself trust you. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

Sam let his gaze fall from the ceiling and forced himself to look in the other man's eyes. Bobby stared at him in silence for a moment, finally, slowly, nodding to himself.

"Stupid ass," Bobby said, fondly, and patted him on the back when Sam started to cry.

III.

It was Sam's voice that dragged him into consciousness, of course—Sam in hushed tones of melodrama heaped upon angst. Words like, "So hard, man," and "No idea what Dean's become," and it made Dean want to laugh, because he had only become what he was meant to be.

Dean blinked his eyes open sluggishly and watched the world focus slowly around him. Sam was sitting on the next bed over, all puppy dog eyes and trembling lips. _Christ_, Dean thought sourly. _He oughta be a fucking cartoon._

Then he noticed who Sam was looking at, who Sam was pouring his heart out to.

"Aw, jeez," Dean drawled, amused by Sam's startled jump. "It's like our own little demented family reunion. Hey, Bobby, how the hell are you? Ellen coming next? How about Jo?"

Dean smiled, the movement slow and lascivious across his face. "Mmmm," he said. "I could stand to see Jo again."

Bobby turned to look at him. As usual, Bobby seemed pretty nonchalant—took a lot to ruffle Bobby's feathers, wasn't the easiest guy to get a rise out of it. Of course, Dean was a master at pissing people off. A challenge was good for him, every now and then.

Bobby raised one eyebrow slightly. "Dean," he said.

Dean grinned. "In the flesh," he replied. "It's good to see you, Bobby. I'd shake your hand, but . . ." He jerked his head at the restraints that _somebody_ had gone a little overkill with. "Don't suppose you'd care to take these off."

"Can't say I would."

"Asshole," Dean said, but amiably. He glanced over at Sam, who was still watching him with the Weepy Eyes of Doom. "Jesus, Sam, aren't you _done_ crying yet? Christ, you're like a kid who just found out Santa Claus was trampled by his own fucking reindeer."

He looked at Bobby with one eyebrow raised. "Kid's soft," Dean said. "Always has been, always will be."

Bobby shrugged his shoulders. "Knocked your ass out pretty good," he said, and this was _exactly_ why Dean hated Bobby, laid back sonofabitch that he was. Knew just what to say and how to say it to irk the fucking _shit_ out of you. Dean wanted to rip that placid, grizzly head right off his goddamn shoulders, but being tied down made that sort of impossible at the moment.

_If he could lift something, say, the Colt, sitting only twenty feet away . . ._

But when Dean tried to move it by narrowing his eyes, all that happened was a big fat nothing. And that was when Dean remembered the spell, the piece of obsidian, the tangerine hallway, Sam . . .

"Sonofabitch," he muttered. His fucker of a brother had stolen the power right back.

Dean frowned, thinking about that. It had to be true, obviously, because he remembered Sam in his dream, he remembered the obsidian, and the results? Kind of obvious. The gun no move-y means the power kinda gone-y. Except . . . Dean didn't feel like it was. Not completely.

It was hard to put his finger on it (particularly because he still felt kind of numb and zoned out) but something _was_ different, only he didn't have much time to concentrate on it right then. Bobby and Sam were still looking at him, waiting for a cocky response. Dean was never one to disappoint. He grinned lazily at both of the time.

"So," he asked, "what's the plan? Keep me tied up here for eternity—maybe lock me in the trunk while you two carry on with the demon huntin? Cause that's a _swell_ plan right there, lemme tell you. I mean, really, just foolproof and everything."

Dean grinned wider at them, even as his eyelids began to droop a little. His whole body felt heavy, like he was sinking under the fresh tide. _Sedatives ain't out of your system yet. Gonna be sleeping again pretty damn soon_. But he wanted to make the most of his time, see how miserable he could make Sam in his spare, few minutes awake.

"You got me dead to rights," Dean said dryly. "You got my powers, got me beat. But you don't got the Dean you used to know, do you? That Dean's dead, and he ain't ever coming back. So, what's the point of this, huh? What's the point of even keeping me alive?"

Bobby seemed to almost flinch a little that (_ha_, Dean thought, _who's so fucking unflappable NOW?_) but Sam just leaned forward, doing that intent-determined jaw clench thing of his. "I'm not giving up on you, Dean," he said. "So save your breath. I'm getting you out of this."

_I'm going to save you, Dean_, Sam thought. _I'm going to save you_—only Dean _heard_ it, _heard_ Sam think it.

And that's when Dean knew the spell had gone a little awry, after all.

IV.

They stayed at the motel they were at (_the Sandman, _Dean realized belatedly) for three very long days. In that time, Dean tried to glean every last bit of information he could.

Escape, he realized quickly, was pretty much out of the question. Dean was tied to a fucking bed (and _godDAMN_ he could use a cigarette) and the only time he was let up was to go to the damn bathroom. And even then, Bobby and Sam pumped him full of enough drugs that he couldn't even feel his godamned feet as he was led to the john. It made him wonder, in a bemused, not-all-there sort of way, where the hell they were getting this endless supply of drugs from. Not that it mattered. They had them and they were using them; that was all that concerned Dean.

Most of the time, Dean could more or less think—he knew what was happening around him and that he was in some massively deep shit here—but his attention span was next to nothing, all 'escape' and 'kill' then 'oh, look at the shiny'. His reaction time was also shot to hell—he wouldn't be able to outrun a fucking turtle, at this point.

So, yeah, the great escape? Not feeling too Steve McQueen at the fucking moment. So instead of escape, Dean was on reconnaissance. He needed to figure out what the hell Sam and Bobby's game plan was.

You didn't have to be psychic to know they didn't have much of one. They were constantly researching—the floor was less carpet now than old books and print-outs. Bobby was almost always on the phone, and Sam hadn't turned that laptop off once in three days. But whatever they were looking for, they hadn't found it—didn't have to be psychic to know that, either.

But Dean _was_ still psychic, at least a little—and it was _weird_, man, because it was different than it had been before. The telekinesis was gone, back to Sam, and the visions probably to (hard to tell, what with them being spontaneous and all) but there was this . . . connection, or something . . . between him and Sam. For the life of him, Dean couldn't figure it out.

It was like Dean was still psychic, could do the whole random-thought-snatch thing from anyone . . . he picked up very tiny things from Bobby, mostly flits of emotion that never quite touched Bobby's face . . . but that was it. Nothing else, not from Bobby. But Sam, Sam was a whole 'nother story.

Dean could feel Sam, wherever he was . . .not like reading his mind or anything, he just . . . just knew. Like Sam was another part of his body or something, some kind of demented third arm growing of his back. Dean could just feel him, know where he was, how Sam was feeling without even thinking about it. Like Dean wasn't just _Dean_ anymore.

It was starting to creep him out.

Sam felt the connection to; Dean knew he did, but he also knew that _Sam_ didn't know exactly what it meant. Kid was distracted, all on a saving souls mission—he didn't have time to wonder why he could feel Dean more strongly than he could before. And he certainly didn't notice that the connection was a two-way street. This, Dean figured, was a good fucking thing.

At first, Dean was pretty pissed off about this whole psychic crap. (_I'm tied up, useless, AND I still have to listen to Sam's emo bullshit?_). But after he'd thought about it, after he'd stopped looking at all the shiny instruments in the room and thought about what he could do, he realized that what he had was his little secret weapon. His _only_ secret weapon, as annoying and as limited as it was.

Dean had a way to look at the coach's playbook without anyone being the wiser—and if he knew what was coming, he'd have a better chance of stopping it from coming to pass. Sam and Bobby had no clue that Dean wasn't all Joe Normal again. Dean could figure out what was going on, make his move, and kill them before they even knew something was wrong.

Be about fucking time, too.

Unfortunately for Dean, this whole psychic BS? Still as inconsistent as fucking ever. Dean didn't even bother with Bobby—man was like a fuckin brick wall—but Sam, he could read. Sam, he understood. The problem was navigating. Dean was so overloaded with impressions from Sam he had a hard time sorting out the ones he wanted and the ones that were useless. Mostly, he kept running into the useless ones, the ongoing, repetitive mantra that went a little like this: _Dean monster Dean have to get him back Dean have to save him have to save Dean Dean Dean . . ._

Fucking codependent baby.

Dean tried to will his brother into thinking something _useful_ for a change—like a list with bullet points on "How I'm Going to Bring Back My Evil Brother's Soul" but Sam just refused to cooperate, the bastard. He was so full of trivial knowledge and whiny fucking feelings that it was no wonder the asshole never got anything done.

Right now, Sam was standing outside the motel room, talking to Bobby about . . . something. Dean wasn't quite sure what. He looked down at his body, lying prone in the motel bed, and made a useless tug on his restraints—he did it occasionally, just to make sure his muscles didn't atrophy away and _die_. After he determined that his body was still working and he was still tied down, Dean closed his eyes and made an effort to concentrate on his brother.

Psychic eavesdropping was way less fun than real eavesdropping. You didn't hear an actual conversation, not like standing behind a slightly open door and just listening. Instead, you got disjointed words and weird impressions, thoughts chasing one another round and round, from out of Sam's head and into Dean's. It was a pretty crappy way to spy on someone, really, but at the moment, it was all Dean had.

_Sam was sitting on the step outside the door, fingers trailing over the words in some book, Bobby looming over him . . . asking him questions . . . did he have anything, but no, Sam had nothing, Sam had had nothing for weeks now, just what Bobby had told him, but they couldn't try that yet, not without some kind of plan . . ._

_Try WHAT_, Dean thought, exasperated, but Sam didn't concentrate on the details of whatever Bobby had told him. It was just _save Dean, save Dean_ over and over again, until Dean was ready to gnaw off his own arm and beat himself in the head with it, just to save himself from Sam's _whining_.

_Focus_, Dean told himself. _Patience, remember? Gotta be patient, gotta concentrate._

Easier said than fucking done, tied to a bed with a whole pharmacy of sedatives shooting through him. Dean was shoving one of those needles into Sam's eyeball when he got out of this.

_Focus. Focus._ Yeah. Right.

_Sam was looking up, sunlight glaring into his eyes. Bobby's face was all shadows and darkness under the protection of that cap. Dean couldn't hear the words, but Sam was suddenly buzzing with excitement—Bobby had something, some idea—and Sam standing up now, legs still a little weak . . . exhaustion, hunger, blood loss, blood sugar . . ._

"The fuck do I care about blood sugar, Bobby," Dean muttered. "Get to the fucking point."

_Plan, dangerous plan, that much was sure. (Also, sort of ludicrous, like how weird is that, and a sudden image of Stephen King, Stephen King, of all people). But as weird as it sounded, it was real, and it WAS dangerous, like DANGER DANGER DANGER, red alarm going off and off, and that robot too, Danger, Sam Winchester, danger, and Jesus, maybe he does need to get some sleep but no, this isn't the time, even though a pillow sounds nice, Jesus, he can see one so clearly right now, just imagine sinking right into it, but he can't because (Dean) he needs to save him, he needs to look at this, this (chud) isn't going to be a walk in the park. DANGER DANGER DANGER and it's likely to get him killed._

_Smashing the alarm, then, shutting it away, because this was their chance, this was Dean's chance, and Bobby rubbing his chin, worried. "Need supplies. Don't got em here." (Bobby's house, suddenly, the image planted in front of Sam's eyes, guard dogs and old cars and a good ole Devil's Trap to seal the deal). Bobby, shaking his head, all, "Sam, this might not work," but Dean can feel Sam's confidence, Sam's HOPE, rising in him, bubbling like yeast, like pizza dough, higher, higher, higher. Sam with his wide eyes and "Could it? Could (chud) could it work, would he (fall) go for it? Is (chud) is it the answer?"_

Dean screwed up his face against the pressure, the pain that was starting to come in. The connection he had with Sam took no effort at all, but trying to navigate it like this was harder than he had expected . . . so many images, so many _feelings_, it was giving Dean one mother of a headache. And he still couldn't make out the details of this plan—chud, was it? He kept getting that word, over and over. _Chud and chud and last chance, man, only chance. What if he could get his brother back, what if (Dean) he could save him, (Dean, need to check) what if he could finally make things better ("I better check on Dean, Bobby" ) _

"_No, I'll go. You just look at these, think about things. I'll go check on your brother . . ." _

Dean pulled his thoughts where they belonged, closing his eyes against the pressure that had accumulated in his temples. The front door creaked open and Bobby stepped inside. When he saw that Dean was awake, he raised his eyebrows at him. "How're you doin there, boy?"

"Oh, fantastic," Dean snapped. "I'm having the time of my life."

Bobby smirked, just a little. "Good," he said mildly. "Always nice to hear." He sat down at an empty chair and started flipping through a book, seemingly at random. Dean wanted to concentrate more fully on what Sam was doing, but he didn't want Bobby to catch on. Bobby was too observant for his own damn good, sometimes. Dean was so fucking sick of Bobby hanging around.

Uncle Bobby. Jesus, what a loser. Didn't even have his own family to obsess over. Used theirs as some kind of sad excuse for a surrogate.

"Anything good, there?" Dean asked, hoping to irk Bobby because he sure as hell didn't have anything better to do. "How about it, Uncle Bobby? How about a bedtime story for old times sake?"

Bobby didn't even look at him. "Don't think you'd like none of mine."

"Yeah? They all about a bunch of rednecks like you? Fighting the good fight, living the dream?"

"Nah, not all of them. But they all pretty much got happy ends." Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Guess I'm just another sentimentalist," he said dryly.

"Fucking sap," Dean replied. "You're worse than fucking Sam." When Bobby didn't respond, Dean pushed himself up a little higher in bed, even as his headache pulsed behind his eyes. "Let's cut the fucking bullshit, Bobby. We've known each other a long time. We both know there's nothing that's gonna fix this. I don't play for the white hats, not anymore."

Bobby set his book down on the table and looked at Dean silently. Dean stared at him, trying to get some clue of what this plan was, what this . . . chud . . . was. "There's no way to save me," Dean said quietly. "You know that, right? You know it's hopeless."

But Bobby just continued looking at him, giving absolutely nothing away. "You never know, Dean," he said. "They say nothing's ever hopeless."

V.

Sam sat on the steps outside the motel, pouring over the notes that Bobby had made in the margins. He flipped another page and studied the ritual again. _Danger, Sam Winchester is right_, he thought to himself. _Jesus, this is like suicide._

Which was why Bobby had been reluctant to show it to him, why he had hoped that Sam had found something himself. Bobby knew Winchesters. He knew how willing they were to throw themselves in front of trains.

And Sam was willing. He didn't like it, but he was more than willing. This could give them _time_, and that, more than anything, was what they needed.

Assuming it worked, of course, but the ritual looked legit enough . . . it just struck Sam as a little absurd, because, well, _chud_. _This_ ritual wasn't actually chud; chud was just a fictional thing, something he'd read once in a Stephen King book, but it's what it reminded him of all the same. Maybe it was where King had gotten the idea, who knew. But _this_ ritual was the real deal.

And it could help him get his brother back. Dangerous and desperate as it was, it could help him get _Dean_ back.

And really that was all that mattered.

Which was what he had told Bobby, but Bobby still didn't like it. Thought it was a damn fool move—"What if it doesn't work, Sam? What if you get killed—how will Dean feel then? You think he'll just be okay with it?"

But Sam didn't care, was beyond caring by this point. He grew more excited the longer he looked at what Bobby had written. He had to save Dean, and that was all there was to it. If he had to die to do it, well, that was an acceptable loss.

Sam skimmed over the ritual one more time and then shut the book, nodding to himself. This was it. This was what they were going to do. He stood up, stretching (he was still pretty damn sore, after three days) and walked back into the motel room. Bobby and Dean's eyes cut to him—Dean almost before he walked into the room, like he'd been expecting him.

There was something weird going on with Sam's abilities . . . he didn't know why, but he was unusually connected to Dean, almost felt like they were attached by some invisible cord. He knew when it was time to dope up Dean again, not by looking at him and judging his responses but just by _feeling _it, feeling the varying states of Dean's sluggishness. Right now, Dean was pretty aware, pretty sharp, and it made Sam uneasy for no real reason he could pinpoint.

There was something definitely strange (_something wrong_, Dean-In-His-Head tried to point out) but he didn't have time to puzzle it out right then. They had work to do.

Sam crossed to the table and picked up a syringe—they had used almost all of their sedatives, not that Dean needed to know that. When Sam turned back to look at him, Dean was rolling his eyes theatrically.

"Always with the drugs, man," Dean said dryly. "If you're not careful, you're going to turn your big brother into a damn junkie." _And good CHRIST_, _I could use that cigarette anytime now_, Dean thought, and Sam frowned, still surprised at the idea of his brother smoking (_as if smoking is really the thing to be worried about_, Dean-In-His-Head snarked.)

"Sorry," Sam said, in response to Dean's silent nicotine craving. "No smokes, man. We're trying to minimize the bad habits. But you can get some sleep now. This is all going to be over real soon."

"Yeah, when I bash your freakin head in," Dean muttered. He eyed Sam balefully as Sam walked over and stuck the needle into Dean's arm. At this point, Dean really _did_ look like a junkie, unshaved and with dark bruises staining his fair skin. _If only_, Sam thought, which was kind of sadly funny. His brother as a junkie would be a dream compared to this.

Dean's eyelids fluttered. "Sorry," he said thickly. "You just ain't that lucky."

Sam blinked, startled. "What did you—" he started to say, but Dean was out before Sam could finish the question. He frowned down at his unconscious brother, trying to put his finger on whatever had been bothering him. _Something's wrong_, he told himself again, but he just didn't know what—

"We lookin to head out?" Bobby asked, quietly, from behind him. Sam turned away from his brother to face the older man.

"Yeah," Sam said. "This is what we gotta do."

Bobby scrubbed his face with one hand. _He looks tired_, Sam suddenly realized. "Sam, there might be another way—"

"No," Sam said. "This is the only way."

TBC


	9. On the Road Again

A/N: Okay, so this is a long one, longest chapter yet, actually. More flashbacks, which means more WeeSammy and WeeDean. Also, I should mention that I made a small mistake in chapter seven, for those of you who remember such little details like, y'know, setting. Dean's memory of his dad hurting him should have happened in their house, not in the motel, as I erroneously stated. The Writer says she is very sorry.

THEN: Sam casts a spell on Dean to get his abilities back. Bobby shows up to patch up Sam and works on a plan to get Dean's soul back. Dean, meanwhile, figures out that the spell didn't quite work as well as Sam had hoped. He has a psychic connection to Sam now . . . one that Sam isn't yet aware of.

NOW:

I.

When he came to, Dean was lying in the backseat of the Impala, and the amount of rope around him was a little ridiculous. He might as well have been restrained in a straight jacket.

Dean blinked at the world around him. The drugs were still heavy in his system, and everything he looked at had a strange, odd hue surrounding it. His extremities were mostly numb—his fingers just starting to tingle painfully—but for the most part, he could still think. That, at least, was a good thing.

Well. He _was_ stuck in the car with Sam. So, maybe, the whole thinking thing, not such an awesome deal after all. He could only hope that Sam wouldn't start crying. His tears were only funny when he was leaking blood too.

Dean flicked his glance towards the passenger seat, but Bobby wasn't in it. They were probably following him down the interstate, back to Bobby's home in South Dakota. Dean wasn't supposed to know that, though, wasn't supposed to know anything about The Plan. So, instead, Dean raised his head as far as he could and asked, "So, what? We goin to Disneyland or something?"

Sam smirked. Dean couldn't see it, but he could feel it, as if his own lips were tugging upwards. "Not exactly," Sam said. "We've still got work to do."

"Ah, Sammy. Always with the work. And you know what they say. All work and no play . . ."

_Make Dean a very clichéd boy_, Sam thought. Which . . . dude. Kind of rude.

_Cliché_, Dean huffed silently. _Dude, I am aaaaaaaaaaaaallllll original._

Sam frowned at him through the rearview mirror. Dean raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Sam continued to frown. "Nothing," he said. He shook his head. "Nothing."

Dean sighed. _Whatever_. Sam was _such_ a moody little bitch. Even when he'd been going evil, he'd been all pissy about it. Sam's idea of a darkside was uncontrollable PMS.

_Jesus, Sam. Such a woman. And to think, I was so relieved not to have a little sister._

Dean raised his head again, trying to get a better look out the window. There wasn't much around . . . on first glance, he'd guess they were somewhere in Nevada. _Great. Fucking great. It'll be days before we hit South Dakota._

Sam frowned at him again, eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror. "How did you know that?" he asked sharply.

"Know what?"

"South Dakota."

_Fuck_That was the problem with having these psychic abilities—the connection wasn't a one-way street, which meant Sam could read Dean too. It was tricky as hell, trying to get info from Sam without Sam being any the wiser. Dean tried to keep his thoughts from being too incriminating and bitterly wished he had access to the telekinesis too.

Sam was practically twitching in the front seat, impatient, suspicious. "Dean, how did you know?"

"Because I'm _psychic_, Sam," Dean said sarcastically, attempting to shrug his shoulders under the ropes around them. "Dude, didn't take a whole of guesswork—where the hell else would we be going? Maybe stop in at the Roadhouse for a beer or check in with all that family we _don't_ have? I know, maybe we're going to Coney Island to ride some roller coasters and munch on some fucking cotton candy. Dude, give me some credit. I'm no college boy, but I'm not an idiot."

Sam watched him for a minute until the suspicion slowly relaxed from his face. "You know," he said lightly, "that was pretty bitchy for someone who keeps calling _me_ a woman."

Dean was offended. "Dude. That wasn't bitchy. _I_ am so not bitchy."

"Sounded pretty bitchy to me."

"I am not bitchy!"

Sam smiled and, to Dean's horror, he felt a smile tugging at his lips too. He shook his head, eyes already rolling. _Sam, man, this isn't going to work. I know what you're doing._

"What am I doing?"

"Being an idiot." Sam snorted and looked back to the road, while Dean maneuvered his body into something that almost resembled sitting up. "Seriously, Sam, you can talk to me like I'm still the brother you grew up with. And I can pretend I care about you, if I think it will get me something I want. But you and I, we're nothing anymore, and nothing you can say or do will change that. You can call me a jerk and I can call you a bitch, but when I get out of this, I'm gonna tear your fucking head off." Dean felt a small bit of satisfaction at the kernel of despair he gleaned from Sam. "Time to face facts, Sammy. You can't share and care your way out of this one, bro."

_Ryan's face, bloody, broken. Ear resting on his palm instead of his head._

"Trust me," Sam said quietly. "Trust me, I know."

"Then what's the plan?" Dean asked, exasperated, because for all his psychic wonder he couldn't figure it out. He couldn't get the details from Sam's brain, just _chud_ and _Demon_ and _trick, trick, trick_. There was some kind of double cross to be played, some card up his sleeve that Sam didn't want the Demon to see, but Dean couldn't figure out what the card _was_. Just _chud _and _chud_ and _soon_ and _save Dean_.

Sam seemed to be ignoring him, which wasn't entirely unexpected. He stared moodily out the windshield, eyes on the virtually empty road. After a minute, he tapped his finger thoughtfully against the steering wheel. "Dean?" he asked slowly. "Why did Dad hit you?"

"Which time?"

"Which—what do you mean which—" Sam's eyes practically bugged out of his head. "He hit you more than once?"

Dean shrugged. "Like I said before, Sam. Just because you slept through everything doesn't mean it never happened." He shook his head, almost smiling. "You've always been like that, you know. If it didn't happen in Sammyverse, why, it never happened at all. The things that went on right in front of your face and you never saw em, not once." Dean laughed bitterly. "And you were supposed to be the smart one."

Sam clenched his jaw in the front seat, looked like he was trying to swallow down a lemon. He took a breath, probably counted to ten, before asking, "How often? How often did he hurt you?"

Dean watched Sam for a minute, amused, and then decided to take some pity on his sad sack of a brother. "Dude, relax," he said calmly. "Wasn't that big of a deal, didn't even happen that often. Daddy wasn't a child abusing bastard, so you can put away the Puppy Eyes of Doom now, okay? He was an asshole, sure, a negligent, pathetic, sad excuse for a father, yeah, but not really abusive. Even he was drank, he was mostly just . . . broody."

_Broody?_ Sam thought incredulously."Broody?" Sam asked. "When was Dad _broody_? When did he have _time_ to be broody? Dad didn't put up with that bullshit; don't you remember all those lectures, man? 'Son, the time you're wasting away mourning, you could be using to kill this evil sonofabitch.' Dad was a lot of things, but he wasn't _broody_."

"Jesus Christ," Dean drawled. "Man, I'm beginning to think you don't have an upstairs _or _a downstairs brain. Christ, Sam, where do you think you get it from? You see _me_ stare out a lot of windows when I was kid, sit and whine in dark corners, write some poetry, maybe? Sure, Dad was a lot less _obvious_ about it than you are, but get a few drinks in the guy, and Dad was maudlin as fuck, man, all, 'What am I doing with my life? What am I doing to my children? Blah blah blah." Dean shook his head. "Obviously didn't bother him too much, because hey? Not like we ever settled down. Not like he ever gave us a chance for a life. Just kept us moving and _whined_ like he didn't have a choice. Jesus, man, you're so much like him I want to puke sometimes."

Sam was quiet for a minute. "You seem so mad at him," he said softly.

"Of course I'm mad at him! Why shouldn't I be? That man wasn't fit to raise children; hell, that man wasn't fit to raise hamsters! He fucked us over but good, Sammy; he fucked up our entire lives. I thought you, at least, would understand that." Dean paused, slowly nodding to himself. "Oh, I forgot. That's right. Now that Dad's dead, he was like Father of the Year, right? You wish you spent more time with him, wish you paid a little more attention, been a better son? Well, fuck that, Sam. Fuck it all to Hell. You don't get to recreate memories of people just to make it a little easier on you. Dad was an ass and now he's in Hell, right where he fucking belongs. You should be hitting the roof, man. You should be fucking celebrating."

"Well, I'm not."

"No fucking kidding." Dean laughed. "Godamn, Sammy. I tried to give you a sense of humor. What the hell ever happened to it, huh?"

_Lost it when I lost my brother_, Sam thought, and Dean rolled his eyes. _Jesus, Sam, it's not like you were the funniest motherfucker before that._

Sam looked back at him again, startled. He had that suck-lemon face again, and his forehead was practically folded over in thought. "Dude, seriously," Dean said, exasperated. "_What_?"

Sam just shook his head. "Nothing," he said shortly. Dean rolled his eyes again and dropped his head back to the seat. Godamn, being tied up like this was as uncomfortable as fuck.

"You never did answer my question."

"Sweet Christ, Sam. Not even God can keep up with your questions."

Sam ignored this. "Why did Dad hurt you? Back it the motel, at Christmas. He practically threw you across the room, man."

"Did more than that," Dean said sourly. When Sam continued to stare at him through the rearview mirror, Dean blew out an exasperated sigh. "Jesus, Sam, we already went over this. The guy was drunk. Pissed off drunk instead of maudlin drunk. Rare, but it happens. Not a big deal."

Sam shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Not buying it."

"What's not to buy? He was drunk. You _saw_ it."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I did. I also saw you that you were reading something. You were honest-to-God _reading_ something and he was pissed as hell because of it. I couldn't see what it was, though." Sam raised one eyebrow, silently asking.

"Oh, the fuck you care, man? That was almost twenty years ago! Who gives a damn about some stupid fucking book?"

"I do," Sam said quietly. "Tell me."

Dean snorted. "And if I don't? You'll what . . . send me up to my room with no supper?"

"No," Sam said calmly. "But I bet I can find a radio station playing Celine Dion. In fact," Sam said, pulling out a tape. "I think this is her greatest hits right here."

Dean stared at the tape in horror. "Why would you even _have_ that?"

"Case of emergency," Sam said, smirking. "Anyway, I could go for a few ballads. We'll just play the tape over and over, until we get to Bobby's."

_That's, like, DAYS worth of Celine Dion. _"You wouldn't," Dean said flatly.

Sam's smile was cold. "Watch me," he said.

He started to put the tape in and Dean held his hands up in surrender. Well, tried to hold his hands up; as they were tucked in around his body, they didn't move much. "All right, all right, _Jesus_," Dean said. "For Christ's sake and you thought cutting off some random kid's tongue was friggin torture."

Sam flinched and put the tape down. He didn't respond to the barb, though, just raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting.

Dean sighed. "Fine. Fine, all right, look. This was the deal. Before Mom died, she used to read me bedtime stories, all right? I mean, real Hallmark, lovey-dovey, doting Mommy thing to do. And we'd go through all kinds of books. Some of them were just little picture books, some fairy tales, some just books that she liked. A lot of times they went over my head, but . . . I just liked listening to her voice, or whatever. Story didn't mean all that much to me."

"Anyway, so we're reading this one book for awhile, and it's a long one, you know, it's got real chapters and all. So I'm getting kind of into it and every night I make her promise she'll read me more of it, cause I want to get to the end. Only we never do get to the end because a certain mutual friend decides to show up and burn the place down with her in it. Damn book burned along with everything else."

"So, that's when Dad starts moving us around, you know, hunting things and dodging CPS, and I got some shit on my mind. Like, I gotta stop _my_ life and start taking care of _you,_ cause Dad's not around a lot, you know, huntin or drinkin or doin whatever the hell else he did. And you were just a baby, so, you know . . . whatever. Mom was dead and Dad was . . . different . . . and kids books just weren't at the top of my list of priorities. And I forgot all about it for awhile, cause, hell, that was another life, right?"

"So one day, when I'm about seven, Dad had finally stopped moving us around so much. I mean, we still moved, but more like every three months instead of every three days, right? So we're staying in this town in North Carolina and I got this teacher there, real do-gooder type, very save the children, whales, shit, starfish, who knows? If something needed to be saved, well, this woman was on the job. Anyway, she noticed I didn't read so much, and that bugged her, of course, cause I had such _potential_. So, one day, she's like, 'Dean, sweetie, why don't you like to read?' and I'm like, 'Cause stories are stupid, bitch.' Which is pretty much how I felt about the whole thing—you're learning how to load a shotgun in under ten seconds, tell the difference between a werewolf and a wendigo, and the mouse eating a fuckin cookie just loses some of its dramatic tension, you know?"

"So Mrs. Save-the-Planet gets this real weepy look on her face, right, because children only play video games and the world's going to hell, blah blah, and she asks, all quiet-like, 'Aren't there _any_ stories you're interested in?' And out of nowhere, just _wham_, I remember it, I remember Mom reading me that damn book that we never got to finish. Only it's been three years now and I don't remember a fucking thing about it—not what it's called, not what it's about, nothing. Like I said, three years. Fuckin lucky I remembered _Mom_, right?"

As a matter of fact, Dean had never considered himself lucky to remember his mother and had spent a good deal of his childhood being silently envious of Sam and his non-memories of her. But he'd never told Sam that before, and he didn't really see the need to tell it to him now. Nor did he think it was important to inform his brother of what a pussy little bitch he'd been—standing there in that classroom, realizing that he couldn't remember the last book his mother had read to him. Dean had started crying right then and there, right in front of that useless lump of a teacher.

He didn't really know who'd been more surprised by those tears—her or him.

"Anyway," Dean said, clearing his throat. "I can't remember that book and it gets to bugging me—kinda got desperate about it, to tell the truth, but there's not much I can do with absolutely nothing to go on. So it gets to be this kind of quest. You know, number three on the world's most pathetic checklists. Number one: Save Sammy. Number two: Make Dad Happy. Number three: Find the Book. Sad, right? Yeah, I knew it was sad even back then. But hey, when you're a sorry sack, you just get used to it, you know? So, yeah. Couldn't ask Dad about it. Didn't think he'd remember . . . but couldn't chance that he would. He didn't like to talk about her."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "And that I understood," he said. "Not talking about things—I knew that made it easier."

_Only you didn't just stop talking about Mom_, Sam thought. _You stopped talking completely_. Which, Dean realized, was kind of a lame thing to do, but he'd been a fucked up little kid, so it wasn't entirely his fault.

Dean did his best to ignore Sam's thoughts; better not to dwell on them anyway, if they didn't have to do with The Plan. "So, okay," Dean said. "Then we skip a few years until December of 1990. We're staying at some crap apartment and Dad's out and you're so godamned antsy that I thought you might die just from a huge spazz attack. So I took you to the library just to shut you the fuck up and it worked like a charm too, eyes all bugged out and fingers running over book covers like they were fuckin gold. _I_ was bored of my skull, of course, so I just started walking around, keeping an eye on you but just wandering, glancing at random books and stuff and then I just—I just saw it. I saw the book and I just knew that it was the one."

Sam squinted and Dean could feel him searching back in his mind, trying to remember that day that they spent in the library together. But he was coming up with nothing. "What book was it?" he finally asked.

Dean sighed again. There was a reason he hadn't wanted to divulge this. "Alice in Wonderland," he said. "Can you believe that? Such a fuckin _chick_ story." He thought about that. "Was kind of acid trippy, though."

He expected Sam to comment on that, tell him the meaning behind the story or give him the full fucking Lewis Carroll biography, but Sam kept his geek knowledge to himself, for once. "So you checked it out," Sam said. "And Dad caught you reading it?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Coupla nights later. He came home and, well, you saw."

Sam shook his head. "I didn't see all of it," he said. "You didn't show me everything, Dean."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said. "What is _with_ your freakish nostalgic flashbacks? What, the past was so much fun, you want to relive every second of it? Is that it?"

Sam didn't answer and Dean struggled to sit up again. "The whole time you were coming to find me, your head was stuck in the past. All, 'let's remember the good times' instead of focusing on getting the _godamn job done_. And now we're driving to South Dakota, going to save my soul or whatever, and you're, what? Interested in some freakin _book_? What the hell do you really want, Sam?"

_My brother back_, Sam thought. "Answers," Sam said. "Tell me, Dean. What's it gonna cost you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "You want to stroll down Memory Lane, fine. But it's not gonna make you happy, Sam. There's a reason I protected you from this shit."

Sam put a hand to his side, where Dean had stabbed him only a few days ago. "I don't think I have to worry about your protection anymore, Dean."

Dean smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I guess we're a little past that, aren't we?"

II.

But I don't want to go among mad people.

Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here.

_There was no reason that quote should be swirling through his brain; no reason at all that it was the only thing he could think. But that's what he was thinking when his father shoved him across the room, shoved him so hard he might as well have picked him up and thrown him._

_Dean felt his feet leave the ground and tried to put them back down again _(either the well was very deep or she fell very slowly)_ but instead his head found the floor first and it cracked _hard. _Dean thought a hammer might have done less damage._

_The world didn't quite go black, but it seemed to seriously consider it for some time. By the time Dean's vision cleared, his Dad was standing, looming, over him._

We're all mad here . . . I'm mad . . . you're mad . . .

"_Godammit, Dean. I gave you an order! You will NOT read that book! You will NOT!" Dad kicked Dean in the side, still muddy boots staining Dean's white shirt brown. "Do you understand me? Do you UNDERSTAND?"_

"_Yes," Dean tried to say, to whimper, but Dad didn't want to listen. Couldn't listen, maybe, didn't make much of a difference, in the end. Dad kicked again. And again. Dean's white T-shirt was now both brown and red. He tried not to cry, because he wasn't some little kid, but this was his _dad_, this was . . . this just wasn't right. He felt tears trickle slowly down his cheeks as he looked up at his father. "Dad, please," he whispered._

_Almost 18 years later, Dean would look up at his father in a similar way, blood pouring down from his chest as he stood pinned to a wall. Sometimes, Dean believed that it was this moment John flashed back to, this moment that allowed his dad to break through the Demon's hold for just a few seconds._

_But neither of them knew anything about that right then. Right then, it was just Dad standing over his broken son, his son who _he _had broken . . ._

_His dad hesitated, seeming to _see_ the boy in front of him for the first time. His foot had already swung back, though, still in mid-kick, and the hesitation cost him his balance, leading him to land hard on his ass. Dean took the time to scoot away from Dad _fast_, his arms still held up protectively around his head._

_Dad made a strange sound._

_Dean backed up a little more, looked past his father to the bedroom where Sammy slept. Sammy hadn't made a sound, hadn't come running out or started to cry, so he must have been still asleep. Dad sometimes said that Sammy could sleep through thunderstorms—which wasn't acceptable. That could be a liability. Sam couldn't protect himself; he was still real little, and Dean needed to get up so he could keep Dad from hurting him._

_He'd have to walk by Dad to do that, though._

_Dean took a breath and stood up, almost cried again at how much it hurt to do that. He edged around his dad carefully, making his way towards the bedroom, when Dad made that strange sound again. His face was pressed into his hands._

_Dean realized that Dad was crying._

"_Dad," Dean said, uncertainly. Dad started and lifted his hands away from his face._

"_Dean," Dad slurred, reaching out with one trembling hand. Dean immediately backed up and the hand dropped heavily back to the ground. Dad's eyes dropped as well, bleary and red-rimmed. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm so damn sorry." He started to cry again, like big time crying, like _weeping.

_And Dean couldn't just watch him like that, couldn't just stand there and let his father cry in front of him._

_Slowly, hesitantly, Dean lowered himself to the ground and sort of crawled over to his father, only a few feet away. "Dad," he said quietly as he put a hand on his father's arm. "Dad, it's okay. It's okay, Dad. It's okay."_

_Dad took a hold of him and hugged him fiercely, so tightly it hurt Dean's back and ribs, but he pretended it didn't, pretended he couldn't feel anything at all. After a few minutes, Dean wormed his way out of Dad's grip, got him by the shoulders when Dad started to tip forward. "Come on," Dean said quietly. "You should go to bed."_

_Dad nodded but didn't move. He seemed relatively content to pass out on the floor. Dean stood up and pulled on his father's arms, eventually getting him to something that almost resembled standing. They made it over to the couch, Dad listing to the side the whole way. His eyes were already closed as Dean helped lower him to the cushions._

"_Sorry," Dad muttered, his eyes still closed, more asleep than awake. "Sorry, Dean, sorry, sorry . . . sorry . . ."_

_Dean grabbed a blanket from the floor and put it over his father, watching him until the muttering stopped and the buzz-saw snoring started. Then Dean went into the bathroom and cleaned himself up. He almost lost it, once, and then swallowed back the tears._

_When he went into the bedroom, Sam was sleeping away, dead to the world. Dean climbed into bed with him listened to his brother breathe. _At least he didn't hurt Sammy_, Dean thought. _At least, at least . . . it's not that bad . . . it's not that bad . . .

_Dean almost started crying again, and he wiped his hand across his eyes angrily. _You're a big boy_, he told himself. _You can do this; you're fine. You're fine.

_He'd hadn't been a kid in a long time. He could deal with this. He was fine._

_Still, he slept a little closer to Sam that night._

_Not like Sam would ever know._

III.

"Jesus," Sam said softly. "Jesus."

It wasn't like his dad didn't drink. It wasn't like Sam had never seen him drink, or that he thought that John was a happy-go-lucky kind of guy. Jesus, he sure as hell wasn't that. John Winchester was a hard bastard. He didn't need a drink to be downright mean. But in all the arguments that they had ever had, Dad had never once laid a hand on him.

But, apparently, he had laid one on Dean.

"Yeah," Dean said, cracking a dry grin. "Man, those were some seriously fun times there, Sammy. You know, I can see the appeal in digging all this stuff up. Hey, lets talk about the time you shot me next?"

Sam ignored that. He was trying to remember anything about that time, and he frowned as a sudden memory came to him. "I don't remember him hitting you," Sam said, "but . . . I do remember Dad seeming sort of . . . wrong? Upset. Ashamed, I guess, although I didn't really think of it like that then. But he was different. He . . . he made breakfast." Sam laughed a little, although not really amused. "Man, Dad never made breakfast."

Dean snorted. "Well, you know how it is," he said. "Kick your son around a little, and then make him some waffles the next day. Gosh, everything must be all better, right?"

Sam ignored that too. "Waffles," he said instead. "You're right, they were waffles. I remember because they were kind of . . . soggy."

"Dad couldn't even make amends without fucking it up," Dean said sourly.

"No, but it was more than that," Sam said. He nodded to himself. "I remember more than that."

IV.

_Sam woke up with an arm wrapped around his neck. "Dean," he muttered groggily. "Dean, you're choking me."_

_Dean groaned a little and removed his arm from Sam's neck. Sam rolled over to look at him. Dean's head was almost completely buried by the pillow._

"_Dean," Sam said quietly. "Dean, Dean, wake up."_

"_Nuh."_

"_DEAN." Dean didn't move. "Dean, something smells funny. C'mon, wake up." Sam poked Dean in the side._

_Dean reacted instantly. He issued a muffled sort of yelp and bent over, curling his whole body into a ball. Sam instantly drew his hand back, worried. "Dean?" he asked._

_Dean groaned again and slid his head out partially from under the pillow. One side of his face was all bruised up and his lower lip was split and puffy. His left eye was swollen almost shut. He used the right one to glare at Sam._

_Sam's eyes got huge. "Dean?" he asked. "Dean, what happened?"_

_The scowl melted off Dean's face. He looked down at the bed sheets. "Nothing, Sammy," he whispered. "It's early. Go back to sleep." He rolled over and slid his head back under the pillow._

"_But Deeeeean." Dean flipped him off. Sam didn't know what that really meant, but he knew Dean thought it was pretty cool. He flipped people off all the time whenever he thought they weren't looking. Sam did it cause Dean did it but Dad caught him once and gave them both hell for it. Dean wouldn't talk to him for _hours_. Sam decided he'd never flip anyone off again._

_Dean still did it all the time, though._

"_Not supposed to do that," Sam told him. "Dad'd be mad."_

_Dean seemed to freeze under the covers. His knees moved closer to his chest and he went deeper under the blankets._

"_Deeeeean!"_

"_Shuddup, you big turd."_

"_No, you shut up."_

"_No, you shut up."_

"_No, _you—"

_There were footsteps outside the doors and Dean reacted instantly. He shot out from under his pillow and he clamped one hand over Sam's mouth. Sam tried to pry it away, but Dean wouldn't let him. He watched the door with wide eyes. Sam watched Dean the same way._

_All those bruises on his face, his body . . ._

_Maybe it was a monster._

_It could have been a monster. Sam knew all about monsters. There were lotsa them and they were bad and his Daddy was good and he killed em. But maybe he didn't kill all of them and one had gotten in and hurt Dean. Maybe it was standing outside the door right now. Maybe it was waiting for them to come out._

_Sam tried to open his mouth again and Dean shook his head. There was silence for what felt like a long time until the footsteps finally moved away. Dean carefully lifted his hand away from Sam's face, his eyes still steady on the door._

_Sam gripped Dean's hand hard. "Is it a monster?" he whispered._

_Dean looked at him sharply. He frowned, starting to shake his head, and then gave up and just shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something and then sniffed the air instead. Dean gave Sam a questioning look._

"_I know," Sam said quietly. "It smells strange. Funny. Good." It really did smell good; it smelled like restaurants, like butter and _food_, but _home_ wasn't supposed to smell like that. Sam looked at Dean's bruises and knew not to trust it._

"_It could be a trap," he whispered to Dean. "Could be like the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel." His tummy rumbled because he was hungry, but he knew it wasn't safe._

_Dean almost smiled at him, but his face still looked pinched, worried. He glanced up at the door and bit his split lip, cursing immediately after he did so. "You stay," Dean whispered, letting go of Sam's hand. "You stay. I'll go."_

_Dean started to get up but Sam grabbed his hand again before he could. "Dean," he said urgently.  
_

"_It's okay, Sammy. Leggo."_

"_No." Sam held on harder. "Dean, it could hurt you again."_

_Dean's face crumpled then, almost like he was going to cry, but Dean never _ever_ cried—_Sam_ was always the one who cried. Sam watched in wonder for a minute as Dean took a breath and let his face smooth out. "It's okay," Dean said again. "The monster's gone. I'm just making sure."_

_He slid his wrist out of Sam's grasp and walked tentatively towards the door. After a minute, he opened it but didn't move or say a word._

_The anticipation became too much for Sam, watching Dean watch the house. He crawled out of bed and ended up on his hands and knees, peeking around Dean's legs to look at the living room. Dean glanced down at him and hissed. "I told you to stay."_

_Sam didn't pay any attention. "Dad's _cooking_," he said._

_It wasn't that Dad _never_ cooked. He'd made hamburgers before. He loaded his hamburgers with all kinds of stuff, but all Sam liked was meat and bread. Sometimes, Dad helped Dean make something—once they'd even had tacos—but usually, meals came out of a can, and breakfast was always some kind of cereal._

_But now . . . now Daddy was making eggs. Sam could see them, scrambling away. There were waffles too, and bacon! Sam _loved_ bacon—all of them did. He wasn't sure where the monster went, but it couldn't be here, not if Daddy was making breakfast. Sam squirmed under Dean's slightly parted legs and ran to his father, ignoring his brother's protests. "Daddy!"_

_Daddy smiled, but it was a sick sort of smile, like he was trying to feel good when he felt really yucky. He definitely _looked_ a little ucky—like that time Sam ate Chinese food. Dad said he'd like it, but Sam hadn't liked it at all. He'd thrown up for two days straight. He was never eating Chinese food, not ever again. He wondered if Dad had eaten some Chinese food too._

"_Daddy, what's wrong? You sick?"_

_Dad shook his head. "No, bud," he said quietly. "Just a headache." He glanced at the food on the stove. "Thought I'd try my hand at making some chow."_

_Sam nodded solemnly. "That's a lot of chow," he said seriously. He looked up and saw that Dean was still standing hesitantly in the doorway. "It's okay, Dean," Sam told him. "There's no monster! It's just Dad."_

_Dean and Dad both flinched. Dad turned to look at Dean as Dean moved almost unconsciously backwards into the bedroom. Dad looked . . . strange . . . as he looked at Dean. "Made some breakfast," Dad said softly._

_Dean didn't move for almost a minute. Finally, he shrugged and edged cautiously out of the bedroom. The sunlight from the window caught him full in the face, made the unbruised part of his skin look golden. He came to stand in the kitchen, just a little in front of Sam._

_Dad opened his mouth to say something and then turned away instead. "Almost ready," he said gruffly. "Go ahead, sit yourselves down." Dean nodded silently, ushering Sam to their little table before pouring two glasses of milk. He wrapped Sam's hands around one glass, frowning._

Be careful_, Dean was saying. _Don't spill.

"_I won't," Sam promised. He was real good about not spilling. He sipped his milk slowly and then put it down as Dad served him a plate of food. Dean sat next to him, a little closer than he normally liked to sit. Dad sat across from them, further away._

"_Dig in," Dad said quietly._

_Sam did, because he was hungry—Dad said he was ALWAYS hungry—and even though the waffles tasted kind of funny, the eggs and the bacon were real good. Usually, Dean ate even more than he did, a lot of bad stuff that wasn't good for you, but Dean wasn't eating much right then and Dad wasn't eating at all._

_Sam started to wonder if he was doing something wrong. "Dad?" he asked. "Aren't you hungry?"_

_Dad looked at him, almost startled. He'd been watching Dean almost the entire time. "Not really, Sammy," he said, shaking his head. He looked back at Dean. "Is it good?"_

_Dean looked at Dad, nodded once._

_Sammy looked back and forth at the two of them. "I like it," he offered, confused._

_Dad glanced at him again, smiling weakly. "That's good, Sammy. That's good."_

_The phone rang and Dad sighed before he got up to get it. Sam immediately leaned towards Dean. "Are you mad at Daddy?" he whispered._

_Dean blinked. He shook his head once._

"_You _seem_ mad at him." Sam could understand being mad at Daddy, because Daddy made _him_ mad all the time. He never answered any of Sam's questions and sometimes he yelled, which Sam didn't like. "If you want," Sam offered. "I could be mad at him too."_

_Dean almost smiled at that, but ended up shaking his head again. _No thanks, Sammy, _he was saying. _That probably won't help us here.

"_Okay," Sam said, shrugging. "If you say so." It didn't feel very okay, though; in fact, it felt really, really wrong. Dean didn't always talk so much—more than he used to, but not always, not consistently—but he was always, always eating. Daddy would say Dean not eating was the sign of the poc-lipse, or something._

_Dean seemed so sad. Sam didn't like him sad. He decided it was his job to cheer Dean up._

_So he threw some soggy waffle at him._

_Dean looked up, startled. The piece of waffle had hit his forehead and bounced off into his lap. Syrup was now tracking slowly down his bruised cheek. Dean scowled at his brother and threw him a warning glance. _No, Sammy_, he was saying. _Dad's not in the mood for this right now.

_Sam launched another piece. This one hit Dean on the nose._

_Dean rolled his eyes, which meant _Dude. _He turned around to look for Dad again, but when he looked back, he was grinning a little. He flung some of his eggs at Sam's hair._

_Sam shrieked with laugh. He tried pelting Dean with bacon. Dean ducked and the bacon flew over his head, into Dad's leg as he walked back into the room._

_Dean dropped the syrup bottle he had grabbed. It hit the floor with a loud thud. He looked downwards, pale again. Dad had that face that meant he disapproved._

_Sam glared at his dad. Dad was ruining Sam's plan._

"_Food isn't cheap, boys," Dad said sternly. "Can't afford to waste it so casually."_

_Dean nodded, sinking further into his seat. Sam considered sticking his tongue out at his father. He decided against it, ultimately, but crossed his arms and continued to frown. Dad wasn't really looking at him, though. He was watching Dean again, looking . . . regretful?_

_There was silence in the kitchen as Dad watched his boys dripping bits of breakfast food. Finally, he sighed and said, "There's a job in California. I want to be packed and ready to go. Two hours."_

_Sam and Dean both looked up. "We're _moving_?" Sam asked incredulously. "_Now_?"_

"_No, not now, Sam," Dad snapped. "I've already paid next month's rent—I'm not wasting money on a place that we're not even living in. We'll stay at a motel—the hunt shouldn't last more than a week. Then, we'll be back, living here. Okay?"_

_Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Sam didn't want to hear him defend Dad. "But why do _we_ have to go?" he whined. "I have the pageant on Friday."_

"_We'll be back for the pageant," Dad said shortly. "We should be back by Wednesday at the latest."_

"_But what if we're not?" Sam asked. "What if it takes longer, what if we're late—"_

"_Then we're late, Sammy," Dad snapped, obviously losing his patience. "It's just a damn Christmas pageant. You think a Christmas pageant is more important than saving lives?"_

No, but_, "It is important!" Sam cried. "I'm supposed to play Rudolph. You can't not have a Rudolph."_

"_Godammit, Sammy!" Dad said, one hand going to his forehead. "You listen to me. I'm the father in this house; I'm the one giving orders here—"_

_Dad faltered suddenly, looking very pale and a little nauseous. He looked quickly over at Dean. Dean was looking at his feet._

_Sam nudged Dean, but he wouldn't look up. Sam frowned. Dean didn't ignore Sam, not when he wasn't teasing._

_Dad closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, he went and knelt in front of Dean. Dean still didn't look up, though, so Dad put a hand to the side of Dean's bruised face. Dean pulled back and Dad winced, as if Dean had hit him. "I'm going to make this up to you, Dean," Dad said. "I swear to you, Dean. I'm going to make this okay."_

_Sam looked at the two of them, Dean so quiet, Dad so soft. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't like it, not at all. Dean said he wasn't mad at Dad, but he must have been mad about something. "What's wrong?" he demanded of his father. "Did you let the monsters hurt Dean?"_

_Dad looked at him sharply, his mouth hanging open a little. Then, to Sam's astonishment, Dad's eyes filled with tears. He reached out with one hand and touched Sam's face too. "It'll never happen again," he told them both. "I promise you, boys; it'll never happen again."_

_Sam didn't know what to do. He was still mad about them leaving, and he couldn't stand to see Dean so sad—he wanted to yell at Dad for making Dean upset. But Dad was almost _crying_ and Dad _never_ cried, like, even less than Dean, and Sam couldn't yell at him when he looked like that, could he?_

_Sam didn't know what to do. He looked at Dean for help._

_Dean stood up from the chair, biting his split lip again, and, very tentatively, gave their dad a hug. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. I believe you."_

V.

"We never did get back in time for that pageant," Sam mused. "I can't remember what Dad was hunting, but we spent Christmas in that motel. Dad said that the toys were because of that, because he had broken his promise, but even that I knew he was lying. Dad would never have apologized for saving lives."

"Yeah, apologies weren't really his style," Dean agreed. "Then again, what's the point of an apology, anyway? Sorry's just a word. You either do something or you don't do it." Not that he really expected Sam to understand that, though. Sam was full of useless apologies. He was always saying sorry like it meant something.

"I _am_ sorry," Sam said. "I wish I'd put it together. It's like those memories . . . they never connected . . . I never stopped to consider that it wasn't a monster."

"Yeah," Dean said mildly. "That's cause your kind of an idiot, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "Guess I am."

Sam moped silently for a minute, and Dean smacked the back of his head into the door. "Jesus," he said. "Stop beating yourself up over it, man. I mean, at least you're not alone, right? I was pretty much an idiot too. Dad promised it'd never happen again, and I believed him, remember? I believed everything Dad ever said. At least you weren't stupid enough to do that."

Sam raised an eyebrow, spared a glance backwards at him. "You worried about my feelings, man?" he asked.

"Fuck, no," Dean said truthfully. "I'm worried about my own fucking eardrums. Jesus, Sam, I don't know if I can take another godamned sob story. Don't you have anymore of that happy juice to slip into my veins?"

_Not enough_, Sam thought. Outloud, he said, "Yeah, Dean, okay. Next to crucifixion, this is _real_ torture."

"Oh, be a bitch about it, why don't you?" Dean grumbled. "Jesus, it could have been worse. I could have had you drawn and quartered or something." He'd seen this movie once, The Hitcher (they'd done a remake, but he hadn't bothered to see it), where this chick was tied between two trucks and slowly pulled apart. He pictured Sam there, his arms stretching one way, his freakish long legs stretching the other . . . _no_, Dean thought regretfully. _No, that's too elaborate. That's how you get into this mess in the first place._

Still. Did sound like fun, though.

Sam was blah-ing away from the front seat, and Dean realized he'd been completely tuning him out. By the time he tuned back in, Sam was talking about friggin _memories_ again. "In the picture," Sam was saying, "our picture of that Christmas in the motel, you're reading a book. Is it . . . is it _that_ book? The one Dad caught you reading?"

"Well, yeah, Sam," Dean said, exasperated. "Dad didn't just get me some random book."

Sam nodded. "I didn't think you'd like it," he said slowly. "I remember you opening it and being sure that you wouldn't like it."

Dean remembered that too. He had torn away the wrapping paper, figuring he'd get a new knife or some survival gear or something, and instead saw the book there, waiting, in his hands. Sam had been watching him, looking on with wide eyes. He'd gone over to his father right away, frowning. "Dad," Sam had whispered loudly. "Dean doesn't _like_ books."

Dean looked up at them but couldn't speak. He thumbed through the pages, feeling a little awed and more than a little numb.

Dad looked back at him, a regretful smile on his face. "I don't know, dude," he had said to Sammy. "I think Dean might like this one, after all."

VI.

_Dean sat in the doorway of the bathroom, his fingers trailing over his copy of Alice in Wonderland. The book was pretty battered, dog-eared and repeatedly underlined, but that didn't matter to Dean. The book was his. Dad had gotten it._

_A particularly loud splash caused Dean to look up. Sammy was sitting in the bathtub, playing with his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dolls—they were on some kind of scuba diving expedition to save the world or something. Used to be, Dean took baths with his little brother, washed Sammy's hair for him, made sure he didn't drown. Now, though, Sammy was old enough to wash his own hair. So, Dean just watched him from the doorway. _

_He still didn't quite trust Sammy not to drown._

"_Hey, bud," Dad said from behind him. Dean's eyes snapped upward to look at his father. He started to rise, but Dad was already sitting down. Dad looked towards Sammy. "How's the rugrat?" he asked._

_Dean snorted. The rugrat in question was using his Leonardo doll to scale the top of the shampoo bottle. "He's Sammy," Dean said, shrugging, and Dad laughed. They watched Sammy for awhile as Sammy splashed around, oblivious._

_Dean felt it when Dad's focus shifted back to him, but he didn't say anything, preferring to wait. Eventually, Dad said, "Son . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it happened."_

_Dean nodded, because he already knew that. "It's okay," he lied._

"_It's not," Dad said. "It's not, and I know that this book doesn't change anything. But . . . it's all . . . it's all I can . . ."  
_

"_It's okay," Dean said quickly. "It's okay."_

_This time, Dad nodded. He took the book carefully out of Dean's hands and asked, "Do you . . . do you want me to read it to you?"_

_Dean looked up incredulously. "Uh, Dad," he said. "I'm eleven. I think I can manage this one on my own."_

_Dad snorted softly. He handed the book back to Dean and stood up. Dean turned his attention to Sammy, now using his soap bar as a surfboard for Raphael. "You know," Dad said quietly, "if you ever need to talk about her . . ."_

_Dean glanced up. His father's shoulders were set, his jaw clenched—ready to go into battle, so to speak. He didn't want to talk about her, probably didn't even want to think about her. But he would, if Dean asked; he'd do it for his son. Then he'd probably go out and have a drink to recuperate._

_The bruises on Dean's face had faded. The ones around his ribcage had not._

"_No," Dean said. "That's okay, Dad."_

_Dad nodded, like that was the end of it, but didn't move from where he sat. "If you're sure," Dad said, giving an unusual second chance. "If you have anything you want to talk about, if you have any questions . . . you can talk to me, Dean."_

_Questions. As if that was a possibility, as if he _might_ not know enough about his mother. The few memories that he'd managed to hold on to . . . how could that ever be enough? Dean had so many questions he didn't know where to begin. What was she like, how did she and Dad meet, what exactly did she _do_ for a living? Did she have a favorite color? Was she a unicorns and daisies kind of girl, or did she watch sports and listen to rock n roll? Did she love him—did she love him as much as Sammy? Did she love him as much as he had loved her? Why'd she name him Dean? What was her maiden name? What was her _middle_ name—he didn't know his own mother's middle name. How could be a good son and not _know _something like that? How could he be a good son and not remember who his mother was?_

_Sammy had an excuse. He was too little to remember anything about her. But Dean should have fought harder, fought harder to hold on._

_He wanted to ask Dad to remind him, to fill him up with everything that he had lost._

_But he remembered Dad on his knees sobbing, Dad saying, _"Godammit, Dean. I gave you an order!_" Dad crying, Dad kicking him, Dad looking at Dean like he didn't know who he was. _"Do you understand me? Do you UNDERSTAND?"

"_No," Dean said, not looking at is father. "No, it's okay." _I don't really need to know.

VII.

"You don't know her middle name?" Sam asked, seemingly stunned by the idea. Dean rolled his eyes skyward. Why _should_ he know his mother's middle name?

"I don't remember it, Sam," Dean snapped, tired of this pointless conversation. "It's not like we talked about it. Mom didn't make pancakes and say, "Here, you go, Dean. Oh, and my middle name is Annie."

Sam almost smirked at that, but still looked a little too bewildered to truly be amused. "Yeah, yeah, I know, just . .. I just assumed you'd . . . ask . . . or _something_ . . ."

"Well, did you ask, Sam?" Dean sneered at him. "Do you know Mom's middle name? Have you ever even _thought_ about it?"

"Elizabeth," Sam said quietly, and Dean rolled his eyes again.

"Well," he snapped, "that's just great. Of course, _you_ know her name. Of course, you weren't scared to ask. Mary Elizabeth Winchester . . . does that make you feel better? Do you feel _closer_ to the mother that died for your sorry ass?"

Sam actually stopped the car in the middle of the road, and then remembered to pull over quickly before they got rear-ended. He turned around to stare, wide-eyed, at Dean. "How did you know that? You said you didn't know her middle name."

Dean blinked at him. "Well," he said slowly, "you just _said_ it, Sam."

But Sam shook his head at him. "No, Dean," he said. "I didn't say it. I just _thought_ it. I _thought _her name." Sam met his eyes, confusion turning to understanding and grim resolve.

_Well, shit_, Dean though.

Then he smiled. "Good guess?"

VIII.

Sam quickly pulled over to the side of the road and used the last of their "happy juice" to put Dean back to sleep. As his eyes fluttered, he heard Sam flip open his cell phone. _Bobby? Man, we've got another problem._

Then he was out. When he was back, Dean was no longer tied up in the car. Instead, he was standing on the side of some road, trying to remember how he had gotten there. He had no idea where _there_ was, though, because a thick fog had settled down and had completely enveloped him. The fog was so dense that Dean couldn't see his own feet. He had no choice but to blindly pick a direction and start walking.

It seemed like he walked for a very long time, occasionally losing his balance in a world made up almost completely of smoke. Eventually, the fog began to recede and eventually disappeared entirely to reveal a carnival before him.

The carnival was fucked up. That was the only way to describe it. The lights were just _out of control, man_, just _insane_ colors flashing everywhere. Kids fed peanuts to the wendigo locked up, and vampires bought candy apples, munching on them as an appetizer before turning on the popcorn vendor.

Dean walked by them, watching warily and keeping his distance. The whole place was like an acid trip. Dean would know, because he'd been on one. Once.

Dean bought a corn dog and saw Andy out of the corner of his eye, wearing a bright red and white pinstriped suit. "Step right up, step right up," Andy was saying, tipping his top hat in Dean's direction. "Step right up to see Father Figures Row."

Dean walked over to him, raising his eyebrows at the cane Andy was twirling. Andy grinned at him and then looked at the other kids that were swarming around the booth. "That's right, step right up for Father's Figure Row. Only a dollar to play and all kinds of prizes if you win. Knock each dad out with this here baseball and whatever you want, you got it, kids." Andy leaned over to Dean, winking at him. "Dude, how awesome is this gig? Am I the shit or what?"

Dean looked at his pinstriped suit with contempt. "Man, I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Andy looked wounded. "Dude," he said. "Harsh." Then he pushed Dean in front of the booth and handed him one of the baseballs. "Come on," he said. "This game was sort of made for you."

Dean looked closer at Father Figures Row. There were people lined up, each of them tied down on their knees: Dad, Bobby, and the Guy the Demon was always wearing. "Jesus," Dean muttered. "This is the most fucked up thing I've ever seen."

"Lord's name, Dean," Pastor Jim said from behind him. He stepped up to stand next to Dean, occasionally munching on his blue cotton candy. There was a six inch slit deep in his throat. As he casually chewed, blue fluff dripped out of the gash down his chest.

"I thought I taught you better than that," Jim said, tearing off another piece of cotton candy. "You're not supposed to take the Lord's name in vain, Dean."

"_You're_ not supposed to be breathing," Dean reminded him. "What the hell are you doing here, man?"

Pastor Jim shrugged. "Oh, just watching the show." He pushed his glasses up and peered closer at the game. "Father Figures, huh? What am I, chopped liver?"

"No," Dean shrugged. "Just dead." He looked at the baseball in his hand and stepped up in line with his father. "Hey, Daddy," he said, nonchalantly tossing the ball in the air.

Dad stared at him, eyes watery and red. "Son," he said, "please."

Dean threw the baseball hard. It cracked his father in the center of his forehead. When the ball fell to the ground, Dean could see a bullet sized hole in his father's head.

Dad fell over, dead.

"One down!" Andy said. "One down! Two more and the prize is all yours!"

Dean picked up another baseball and walked to stand in front of Bobby. Bobby shook his head disapprovingly.

"Dean," he said mildly. "You'll be regrettin' it if you do."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Kind of doubt it." He threw the ball, this time into Bobby's throat. Bobby fell over.

"One more! This young man only has one more to go! Can he do it?"

"Of course, he can't," the Demon said, smiling confidently at Dean. "Boy, I saved you from all of this. I gave you a _life_, Dean. Where would you be without me?"

Dean looked at Andy. "Man's got a valid point," he said. He picked up a baseball and smiled at Yellow Eyes, who was suddenly looking a lot less certain. "On the other hand," Dean told the Demon. "When you sell your soul, you suddenly don't care so much about screwing over the guy who gave you a hand-up."

Dean threw the baseball into the Demon's left eye. Blood spurted everywhere and the Demon slumped forward, another dead body for the crowd to ooh and ahh at.

"Winner!" Andy shouted. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a winner!" He shook Dean's hand fervently and clapped him on the back. "Well, Mr. Winchester, time to collect your prize. What will it be, man? Purple teddy bear or a stuffed green gorilla?"

"Actually," Dean said. "I had a more special prize in mind."

Andy nodded appreciatively. "Dude," he said. "Gotta go to the gypsy tent for that, man."

"I know the way," somebody said from behind him. Dean looked down to see a creepy little blonde child standing in front of him—and when he thought creepy, he didn't mean all ghosty and dead. Instead, this girl was perky to the point of ridiculousness. Her pink dress appeared to be made entirely of ruffles.

Dean raised an eyebrow at the pink creature in front of him. "Yeah?" he asked her. "What's your name?"

"Elizabeth," the pink-thing said. Dean realized suddenly that this was supposed to be his daughter.

"Actually," Elizabeth said sweetly. "I'm the daughter you _could _have had, the daughter you were supposed to take care of you. This isn't the way it's meant to be. You're supposed to be winning a prize for _me_."

Dean laughed at that. "Sorry, darlin," Dean drawled. "I only play for keeps around here. Tell you what, though: you lead me to this gypsy tent of yours, and I won't slit your throat right here and now."

Andy shook his incredulously. "_Dude_," he said. "Seriously, man, you went all darkside on us."

Dean smiled at him. "Yeah," he said. "It's a lot more fun this way." Then he took a knife from his boot and stabbed Andy in the eye.

Fucker was just getting on his nerves.

Andy fell over, clutching at the knife for a minute before going rigid. Pastor Jim knelt next to him, doing some kind of benediction while still leaking blue cotton candy. "God save you," Jim said, more to Dean to Andy.

"God didn't save you," Dean reminded him. "Don't think he'd bother with something like me."

Dean thought about killing Jim too, trying to make sure the bastard stayed dead this time, but Elizabeth had disappeared and Dean ran off to find her. He didn't know how to get to the gypsy tent and he needed the little girl to guide him.

It seemed like Elizabeth had vanished, though. (_Fucking white rabbit . . . sick of chasing her around.) _Dean wandered aimlessly, looking at the various attractions. Jo was crawling around the side of the road, her body contorting into positions that Dean didn't even realize were possible. At first, it was actually kind of hot, then . . . kind of disturbing. Dean thought about going over there to fuck her, but he was a little worried she'd twist into some position and get stuck around him. That could be awkward.

Dean moved on. He saw Sam's dead girlfriend as well as that Sarah chick from New York . . .only now, they were Siamese twins, and they were fighting over Sam. "You can't have him!" Jessica shrieked at her "sister". "I'm his only true love! You're just the Chick of the Week!"

Sarah slapped Jessica. "Yeah," she said, "but I've got one advantage: I'm not _dead_!"

Jessica shrieked, and soon the twins were rolling around the ground, pulling each others hair and trying to hurt the other without hurting themselves. Dean watched this with some amusement for awhile before he heard his name being called, over and over.

Dean looked around, trying to see the little girl, but the sound seemed to be originating from the fun house. Dean went inside, finding himself in a room full of different sized mirrors. Only these mirrors didn't show Dean super tall or super skinny the way he thought they would. Instead, the mirrors showed him all the different Deans he could have been, a Fireman Dean, Dean as a groom, Dean as a father, playing with Elizabeth. Dean tried to smash the mirrors, erase the futures that could never be, but the glass just wouldn't seem to break.

"Silly," Elizabeth said calmly. "You can't get to the prize that way." She was standing a few feet away, just out of reach, and there was a boy standing next to her. He opened his mouth and there was no tongue. _Ryan_, Dean realized and was suddenly afraid.

_It's your turn to be prey_, Ryan said without moving his mouth. He smiled viciously at Dean, and Dean smelled something like wet dog. Blood, too, he could suddenly smell so much copper, and he thought, _Shit, fuck. Fuck, it's a godamned werewolf._

He heard the werewolf snarling behind him and little Elizabeth giggling at the sound. Dean ran forward without turning around, ran faster than he thought he could possibly go. He turned corners in the funhouse blindly, always aware of the werewolf behind him, ready to pounce. Dean ran, dodging clowns when they jumped out at him (_and what the hell are clowns doing here? This is my dream, not Sam's_—but he didn't have time to focus on that, that vague idea of dream versus reality). There was an open, blue door at the end of a hallway and Dean jumped through it, knowing somehow that the werewolf couldn't pass.

He landed hard on his knees and cursed, looked at them to see if they were bleeding. When he lifted his head, Dean found himself in a tent, the air thick with incense and herbs. Missouri was sitting in front of a small table. There were Tarot cards spread across it.

"You're the gypsy?" Dean asked and then laughed. "Of course you are. Why wouldn't you be?"

Missouri raised an eyebrow at him. "You best be minding your tone with me, Dean Winchester," she said. "I won't suffer the likes of you."

Dean took out his gun and aimed it at her. "I think you will," he said flatly. "Now where the hell is my godamned prize?"

Missouri shook her head, not looking the least bit intimidated by his gun. "That's after," she told him calmly. "First, I have to read your cards."

"The fuck? Lady, does it looks like I want a fucking Tarot reading? All I want is my _godamned prize_!"

"And you'll get it, Sam," Missouri said. "After I read you your cards."

"_Sam_? I'm not Sam!"

"You're not?"

"_No_! I'm not Sam, Missouri. Jesus. I'm Dean."

"_Are_ you now?" She pursed her lips. "Are you sure?"

Dean sighed and decided it was pointless to argue with a psychic who didn't even know which brother was standing in front of her. He went to sit in front of her table, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. She told him to shuffle the cards, and he did so, handing them back without much interest or anticipation. She laid the first card at the center of the table.

"Death," she intoned, as the Grim Reaper looked back at them.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Course," he said. "Ain't a damn Tarot reading without the Death card on the table."

Missouri ignored this. She laid out another card. "The magician," she said thoughtfully, as if this was very significant.

Dean snorted. "Really? Magic? In _my _life? Jeez, Missouri. Say it ain't so."

Missouri didn't even look up. She laid down a third card. It showed two people with their tongues stuck out, a blade above them, piercing both tongues. "Chud," Missouri said, looking almost afraid. "This is what you don't know."

Dean stared at the card. "You know," he said, "I'm not exactly up on my Tarot, not a New Age kind of guy, but you know, I'm pretty sure that just ain't normally in the deck."

"That's because this isn't a normal deck. There's nothing normal about your future, Dean."

"This isn't my fucking future! The Ritual of Chud? Jesus, it's not even real." And he knew it wasn't, because he'd looked it up when he was a kid. Sam had read this Stephen King book back then, this book called _It_, where this was this clown-monster-thing killing kids. Probably why Sam was afraid of clowns to begin with. Stupid asshole. You'd think he might spend his time being scared of the monsters that were _real_.

Anyway, Sam freaked himself right the hell out, and Dean had to read the _whole damn thing_ just to see what scared his brother so much. Clowns. Jesus, Sam was useless. Dean really couldn't wait for his opportunity to kill him.

"It's just a story," Dean told Missouri. "I didn't remember at first, couldn't pinpoint where this stupid chud thought was coming from, but. . . that's all it is, a story, a lie. Chud is this ritual these kids use to get rid of their big-scary-clown monster or whatever. But I looked it up, Missouri. It ain't freaking real!"

"Every fictional ritual has its roots in something," Missouri reminded him, sounding for all the world like a high school history teacher. "Just because the Ritual of Chud isn't real doesn't mean that there's nothing real behind it. What do you really remember, Dean? What do you remember about Chud?"

Dean shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Not much," he said. "Something about a battle between two guys—a shaman, I think, and something called a taelus. The taelus is supposed to be some kind of some shapeshifter or whatever, the big, bad mojo, you know, evil has come to stay. The shifter and the taelus stick out their tongues and bite in to the others. Then, they have to tell riddles or some shit until the other one laughs." Dean thought about that, somewhat amused. "If that's Sam's great master plan . . . well, actually, it might work. Sam's got, like, no sense of humor. The Demon probably _would_ be the one to laugh first."

Missouri returned her attention to her Tarot cards, laying down a fourth card. "Judgment," she said, looking at Dean. "You aren't worried, boy? You aren't worried at all?"

"Of what? A tongue-biting, joke fest?" Dean laughed. "If that's my brother's only line of defense, then no. I'm really not."

Missouri shook her head. "Boy, you can awful stupid when you set your mind to it. You think that's all he's got up his sleeve? Him and Bobby, you think they don't have a real plan? Your brother and Bobby are the magicians in all this, and they've got a card they haven't played yet. You're missing something important, you know. You're missing something big."

"I. Don't. Care," Dean snapped. He pointed the gun at Missouri's head again. "All I want is my prize. That's all I care about."

"You haven't won," she told him. "You think you have, but you're wrong. The fat lady hasn't sung yet."

Dean shrugged. "Then sing, bitch," he said, and shot her in the head.

Missouri fell forward, her cheek smacking into the Death card. Dean stood up and kicked her over; then, he knocked all the cards off the table. "Chud," he scoffed under his breath. "It doesn't mean a godamned thing."

He looked up and found that there was another room in the back of the gypsy tent. Dean knew his prize was there. He also knew what the prize was. He walked into the room and smiled at what was there.

Sam was in the center of the room, tied to a chair. He looked helplessly at his brother.

Dean put away his gun and pulled a knife out of his boot. Sam stared at the knife, his mouth hanging open.

"Please, don't," Sam said. "Please, man. I'm your brother."

Dean smiled. "I know," he said. "That's why this is so much fun."

He stuck the knife in Sam's gut, ripped it upwards all the way to Sam's throat. Pieces of Sam started to spill out across his lap. Dean thought Sam would scream, but Sam never screamed. He just looked at Dean, almost calmly now.

"Probably shouldn't have done that," Sam said blandly. "Don't think it was such a hot idea, Sam."

"I'm not Sam!" Dean screamed. He kicked Sam's chair over. "I'm Dean! I'm _Dean!_"

Elizabeth showed up, stepping over Sam's body to stand near Dean. She put a hand to Dean's chest. Dean looked down to see his shirt was bloody.

He took it off and found a huge cut, identical to Sam's, from his gut to his collarbone. Dean fingered the pieces of his entrails as they looped out of his body. "I'm Dean," he whispered to himself. "I'm Dean."

Elizabeth smiled sweetly at him. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Are you really _sure_ about that?"

IX.

Dean woke up with a start, his hands wrapped around his stomach. All his guts remained firmly inside. He wasn't hurt. He was safe.

In a way.

He was still in the car, but the car wasn't moving, felt like it had just been parked. That was probably what had woken Dean up, the sudden lack of motion, that subconscious feeling of _stop_. Dean tried to maneuver his body upwards, get his bearings, figure out what was going on. Sam was looking at him from the front seat.

"We're here," he said quietly.

TBC

A/N: Quotes from Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_. And by the way, two more chapters to go!


	10. Go Fish for a Soul

A/N: Okay, so before, when I said there were two chapters left? I lied. Had to split this chapter up, but the next chapter SHOULD be up sometime next week. So two more chapters AFTER this one, including an epilogue. As always, sorry for the wait.

THEN: Bobby and Sam have cooked up some kind of plan to possibly return Dean's soul. Dean only knows that Sam thinks of it as a chud, a fictional ritual from a Stephen King book. Sam has discovered that Dean is linked to him somehow and drugs him again to keep from finding anything else out. They arrive at Bobby's house in South Dakota, where the last act will fall.

NOW:

"_But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then."_

-Alice in Wonderland

I.

While Bobby finished securing Dean inside the house, Sam stood in the middle of the yard, staring at the deep blue sky and trying not to think about anything.

It wasn't working.

He told himself that he just needed a minute, a minute to get away from the smell of blood and smoke-filled rooms, away from the brother that was not _his_ brother anymore, away, anywhere, for just a moment of _peace_. He felt like he hadn't seen the sky in so long. He closed his eyes and imagined it enveloping him.

"It didn't work," Sam had told Bobby hours ago, when Dean had passed out in the back of the car. Sam had paced on the side of the highway, trying to push back the sudden shot of panic coming from within him. "The spell, it didn't work, or it did but not really, not the way we thought it would, not the way we _needed_ it to. He can still pick up thoughts, Bobby, I mean, God. He still has abilities. He can still read _minds_."

Bobby had to slow Sam down—if there was anything Bobby was good at, it was slowing people the hell down, making sense of whatever mess they had caused—and got the full story. He made Sam go over each and every detail, every time he had felt Dean brush his mind or respond to something that Sam had only thought.

_Jesus, Sam, it's not like you were the funniest motherfucker before that_. Dean's thought in response to Sam's own, only Sam had assumed it was simply Dean-In-His-Head and not his brother in the backseat. Because it was impossible, right? Dean couldn't read minds anymore. If Dean couldn't read minds, then he couldn't hear what Sam was thinking, and therefore couldn't be responding to what Sam was thinking in his own head. That made sense. That was good. Sam was just imagining it all. He had to be, really, because Dean _couldn't read minds_.

Except, apparently, somehow he still could.

"You're telling me you heard the boy's voice in your head?" Bobby had asked incredulously. "That you were holding mental _conversations_ with your brother and you didn't find it a mite odd?"

Sam had shrugged helplessly. "It's not, really," he had said. "It's just—he's always—he's always been in my head, Bobby." The admission had been both embarrassing and not, and Sam had been glad he didn't have to look Bobby in the eyes when he said it. "I just thought it was my . .. imagination, or something. I didn't think it was _Dean_, you know, I didn't . . .I didn't _think_ . . ."

"Okay, Sam, okay," Bobby had said over the phone. He had slipped into that Uncle Bobby voice, trying to talk Sam down from whatever emotional ledge he had found himself on. Sam had found himself on a lot of emotional ledges, over the last month. "It's all right, Sam. Just take a breath."

Sam had. He took a few of them, watching his unconscious brother.

"You okay, son?"

Sam nodded, and then remembered Bobby couldn't see him. "Yeah," he said, rubbing a shaky hand over his face. "Yeah. Sorry, it's just . . ."

"I know, Sam. I know. We just have to keep our heads, figure out what this means. You're saying your . . . abilities, or what-have-you, they split? He took telepathy and you took telekinesis?"

Sam started to say yes, then stopped. He thought about that for a minute. "No," he said. "No, that's not it at all. Because I could hear him, too. I picked up his thoughts as much as he picked up mine. And . . ." _it's more than that. _"It's bigger than that," he told Bobby.

"What do you mean?"

Sam tried to explain. "It's not just knowing what he's thinking," he told Bobby. "It's different . . . it's more like . . . _feeling_ Dean, like . . . being in the same skin. It's like being able to feel your own shadow." _Weird_ was what it was, but Sam hadn't paid attention at first, all concentration on saving Dean and pulling off the plan. He hadn't realized how much things had changed.

But now, standing next to the car, watching his brother drool against the back window, Sam could almost feel the cold pane of glass against his forehead, the rope bound around his body over and over again. He couldn't tell what Dean was thinking, because Dean wasn't thinking much of anything right now, but he did feel connected somehow, tethered to his brother, like they occupied the same space at the same time.

It wasn't the same with Bobby. Even when they'd been at the motel, Sam didn't feel connected to him in this same way. He could pick up a current of emotion, maybe, a thought or two if he was trying, but Sam didn't _feel_ Bobby the way he felt Dean. This was something different. This was something just between the two of them.

_Magic ain't like tossing a yo-yo_, Missouri had said when Sam had asked her about the spell. _It doesn't always swing back and forth the way you think it will._

"Missouri told me that magic has a way of creeping into your being," Sam told Bobby. "She said that sometimes it becomes entangled with who you are, not just what you can do. I think, somehow, that the spell bound me and Dean together. That we're . . . fused . . . together in some way."

Bobby had been quiet for a long time. "Well, hell," he finally said. "Does your brother know what we've got planned?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I don't think so, not all of it, anyway." He thought back over the last few hundred miles, the thoughts he had picked from Dean, the questions Dean had asked. "Some of it," Sam finally said. "But not everything."

"Well, that's something, I guess," Bobby had said dryly. "Does he know too much? Do we change plans?"

Sam had laughed dryly. "I don't think we have a lot of other options at this point, Bobby," he had said. "We've got our play. We'll have to take the chance."

_Reckless_, Dean-In-His-Head said now, as Sam stood outside of Bobby's home in South Dakota. _This is a fucking risky move, man. You don't get a second chance if it goes to hell._

"I know it," Sam said quietly to himself. "Trust me, Dean. I know it."

"Sam!" It was Bobby, from inside the house, calling out to him, dragging him back to the present. Not a place Sam wanted to be, at the moment, but sometimes, you just didn't get the choice.

"I'm coming!" Sam yelled back, but he didn't, not for a few minutes. Inside he could hear Dean from inside, speculating on Sam's current whereabouts. _Probably watching the sun rise_, Dean thought_. Maybe reading some Robert Frost poetry._

Sam smirked at that. As a matter of fact, he did know some Robert Frost poetry. _I shall be telling this with a sigh_, he thought. _Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference_.

"It has to make a difference," he told himself. "It's going to work. It _has_ to." Bobby wasn't going to like it . . . but there just was no other way.

Sam might have watched the sun rise, just to spite Dean, but the dawn had already come. _Too bad_, he thought. _Would have liked to have seen it. Could be my last one._

The thought didn't bother him, like it might have once. Sam was getting tired. This life, this job, it didn't mean much without family. Nobody got into hunting for shits and giggles.

Sam needed to save Dean . . . but if it didn't work, at least it would all be over. One way or another, it would all be over. And if he died so that Dean could live . . . well, that would be okay too.

He was getting Dean's soul back. That was the only thing that mattered.

_. . . that has made all the difference . . ._

Sam turned around abruptly and walked inside.

II.

Dean was getting pretty damn tired of being tied down to a chair. And he wanted a godamned _fucking_ cigarette.

Sam came in through the front door, looking appropriately angsty and broody and Sam-like. He glanced over at Bobby. "We got what we need?" he asked.

"No," Bobby said flatly. "At least, not enough of it. Got to go out and get supplies. You okay, staying with him?"

"Course he'll be okay," Dean said, grinning. "Sam n' me, we're like peas n' carrots again."

Both Sam and Bobby ignored him. _Rude. _"I'll be fine," Sam said shortly. He shifted uneasily as he spoke, not meeting Bobby's eyes.

Dean leaned forward a little. _This_ might be interesting.

Bobby stepped towards Sam. "Hey," he said. "You're not planning on doing nothing stupid while I'm gone, right?" Sam hesitated a fraction too long, and Bobby frowned as he stepped closer. "Sam," he said. "This plan, it—"

Bobby cut himself off, his eyes tracking towards Dean. "It's a last resort," he said to Sam. "You understand that, right?"

Sam nodded, still looking at the ground. "I know it," he said.

"Sam—"

"I _know_ it, Bobby," Sam said. He looked up a little wearily. "I know it," he repeated, softer this time. "I'm not going to do anything stupid. I swear."

Dean tried to figure out what stupid thing Sam might _consider_ doing, but as usual, Sam's thoughts were spinning in an all-too-familiar loop. _Save Dean-chud-Dean-chud. _It gave him no real clues. Sam ran a hand through his hair. "I'm okay," he told Bobby. "It's just—"

"He's afraid of losing me," Dean interrupted cheerfully. "He feels like we're running out of time. Which, honestly, I don't get. Does my soul come with an expiration date or something?"

They continued to ignore him. Dean was feeling a little unloved. Bobby put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'll be back soon," he said. Take care."

He turned towards the door. Dean called after him. "What, you're not going to say goodbye to me? Maybe give me a hug? Tell me how much you love me?"

Bobby turned to look at him impassively. Dean grinned at him.

"Come on," Dean said, winking. "I know we're like your surrogate kids, or whatever. You probably spent more time raising us than our dad did—and was that such a loss? John was a lousy father. You thought that, right, every time he went away? How many times did you hope that he'd die on a job? How many times did you think about adopting us? The sons you never had, the family you always wanted. How many times did you wish we would call you Dad?" Dean laughed harshly, enjoying the not-quite stoic expression in Bobby's eyes. "You're fucking pathetic, old man. You're still envious of a ghost."

Bobby looked at him steadily for a minute. "I was a mite jealous of your Daddy," he finally said. "Didn't think he appreciated what he had—thought he was too reckless to be a father, sometimes. But I know the man tried, was a good friend to me at times. And he loved you boys, you know. I doubt he told you enough, but he did."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jesus," he said. "Does it look like I'm petitioning for a fucking hug?"

"Sometimes," Bobby said, "I think that's what you've spent most of your life doing."

Dean's eyes went flat at that. He glared at Bobby sullenly.

"Take care," Bobby said to him. "Don't gotta be my son to be my boy."

Bobby walked out the door. Sam shut it behind him and stared at the floor. Dean listened to the sounds of Bobby starting to truck up. As soon as it did, Sam left the room, returning quickly with a small bag in his hands. Dean watched Sam open it up.

His brother laid out everything he needed for a summoning spell.

Dean laughed. He couldn't help it. "Dude," he said. "You are _such_ a little liar. Didn't I _just_ hear you swear to Bobby that you wouldn't do anything stupid?"

Sam raised an eyebrow without looking up. "Are you complaining?" he asked.

"Hell, no," Dean said. "Just—dude, not your brightest move ever. But hey, you want to chat it up with the Demon, go ahead, be my guest." He watched Sam set up his spell, unable to believe his own good fortune. Never underestimate a brother's suicidal need to save his own psychopathic sibling.

"You really think this chud thing's gonna work?" Dean asked. "I mean, you actually have _confidence_ in this crackpot little plan of yours? Cause, dude, even if the Demon agrees to whatever ritual or game you've got running, you really think you have any chance of _winning_?"

Sam lit a candle. "Yeah, Dean," he said. "I do."

"Why, Sam? Why? Cause you've got _love_ on your side?"

Sam smiled without humor. "Yeah, Dean. Cause of that." Sam closed his eyes and began to speak, murmuring in Latin. Dean couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to. He'd spoken them himself, like his father before him.

The fucked up family business. _One way or another_, Dean thought. _It'll be over tonight_.

Sam finished the ritual, and right on cue, the front door burst open, splintering inwards.

The Demon stepped inside, a grin on his face, eyes orange and bright in the shadow of the cabin.

"Oh, boys," the Demon called, smiling. "Guess who's home?"

III.

The Demon stepped over what was left of the door and stopped in the middle of the room. "Sam," he said, smiling, "always good to see you. Dean, you look a little tied up there, son."

"Hardy fucking har," Dean snapped. "Could you get me the fuck out of here now?"

"Actually," Sam interrupted before Yellow Eyes could say anything. "He can't." Which wasn't, strictly speaking, true, but that was one of the many things that Sam was trying not to think about—he was slowly becoming the master of creating great, elaborate plans and then not thinking about them as he executed each step. Which was a little like telling yourself to ignore the pain when you had planted your foot straight into a bear trap, but still, he thought he was doing a pretty good job, not thinking about the real plan, not thinking about how Bobby wa—

Sam broke off the thought without completing it and didn't meet Dean's suddenly intense gaze. Instead, he lifted his eyes upward, to the ceiling above the Demon's head. The Demon looked up too. There was a large devil's trap painted there. It took up half the room, because Sam had no idea where the Demon was going to stop walking.

The Demon started to laugh. "Sam," he said, "didn't we already have this discussion? Do you really think that something like _that_ will do any good against something like _me_?"

The Demon made a waving motion with one hand, throwing all of Sam's supplies into the nearby wall. It was supposed to throw Sam into the nearby wall, too, but he'd been ready for that. He pushed back hard with his mind, keeping his balance even as his books and candles flew behind him. "Do you really think something like _that_ will work on someone like _me_?" Sam countered, keeping at the ready but relaxing his stance.

The Demon raised his eyebrows. "Ah," he said. "I see that we've switched powers yet again." He glanced over at Dean, who looked a little sullen tied up in the chair. "Little Sammy one-upped you again, eh, Dean?"

Dean rolled his eyes at that. "Dude," he said. "Everyone's got their off days. Bust out of that damn thing, already, and I'll rectify the situation.

_Rectify_, Sam thought. _Nice word, Dean. Three syllables, even._

_Fuck off_, Dean thought back without a backwards glance. "Seriously, dude," he said to Yellow Eyes. "Will you hurry it up? We could be killing people here."

The Demon turned to look back at Sam. "You know," the Demon said. "The boy does have a point. It's hard to see the point in setting a trap that you _know_ I can break out of."

"That's because the point isn't to trap you," Sam said. He took a breath and stepped forward. _Here we go. This is it._ "All I want to do is talk."

_Talk about WHAT, _Dean thought, exasperated. _Football scores? How to pick up chicks? _

Sam smirked without wanting to—there was something irritating about the fact that his soulless brother could still amuse him—and refocused his attention on the Demon, who demanded a certain concentration. "The only reason I put up the Devil's Trap is so you'd have to stand there for a minute. It's a lot easier to talk to you when you're not trying to rip my heart out through my chest."

The Demon smiled at that, understanding. "Like father, like son," he said quietly. He chuckled then, low in his throat. "You want to make a deal," he said.

"Actually," Sam said blandly. "No. I don't. I'd rather make a bet. And my brother's soul and mine are what's on the table."

The Demon's jaw just dropped. Literally, it dropped. And while it was both immature and ridiculous to feel smug about such a thing . . . there was such an immense satisfaction to be had, about surprising someone who always seemed to have the upper hand. Particularly when that someone was the thing that killed your parents. And your girlfriend.

Sam smiled smugly and took advantage of the moment to lay out the details of his quote-unquote plan.

The ritual that Sam thought of as chud was actually an ancient Hindu ceremony—it only bared a slight resemblance to King's story, but it was how Sam thought of it regardless. The ceremony itself wasn't particularly complicated—words, bloodletting, all standard fare. It was what happened _after_ that made the thing so dangerous.

What happened after was a mixture of telepathy and astral projection—the involved parties left their bodies in the room, supposedly surrounded by some aura that protected them from outside forces. Their astral forms entered some other kind of plane, and this was where they did battle, a silent war of wills. The spell didn't come with a lot of details on what this battle would be like, but the Dean-In-His-Head had referred to it as a whacked out Vulcan mind meld. Dean-In-His-Head thought it was a bad idea. Sam called Dean-In-His-Head a closet trekkie.

_Fuck you_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _Doesn't mean that I'm wrong. This IS a bad idea, Sam_.

And yeah, Sam knew it. Putting his will against a Demon's in some mysterious, astral plane—Sam knew it was a doomed plan. Even with his abilities, he'd be screwed.

If he won, he'd save Dean's soul. And Dean's soul needed to be saved. On the other hand, if he lost . . .

Well, this was supposed to be his destiny anyway.

_Right, Dean?_ he asked the Dean-In-His-Head, not the Dean who could now invade his head. _I was supposed to go dark side in the first place. If I lose, I'm just ending up where I was meant to be._

_That's STUPID, Sam, _Dean-In-His-Head said. _You're gonna make what I did for nothing._

_Not if I win_, Sam thought. _Not if I'm lucky. Not if this works._

The Demon listened as Sam laid out his bet—silently, without interrupting for jokes or witty comments. Dean, tied to his chair, listened silently too—and Sam could feel him frowning, trying to puzzle out what was wrong with it—_because something's gotta be wrong with it. Sam's all kinds of stupid, but not THIS kind of stupid_—and Sam focused on _save Dean, save Dean_, and tried to avoid thoughts of Bobb—_save Dean._

The Demon tilted his head. "It's an interesting gamble," he said, speculatively watching Sam as his tongue darted out between his lips. "But it seems a little unnecessary—for me, at any rate. Why would I go to all this trouble when I can kill you where you stand and take your brother's soul for free?"

"Oh," Sam said, smiling. "I don't think it's _Dean's_ soul you really want, not anymore, anyway, now that he's not special. And besides, you're assuming that it'd be so easy, to kill me like you've killed my family." Sam flexed his hands and watched chairs fly across the room. "It could always be the other way around."

The Demon raised an eyebrow. "You've gotten cocky in your old age, Samuel," he said, and then hesitated, just for a moment, that tongue darting in and out of his mouth like a snake. (_I hate snakes_, Dean-In-His-Head non-sequitured, Indiana Jones style). Suddenly, Yellow Eyes laughed. "Why not?" he said. "I like you're style. Besides, this could be . . . amusing."

_Amusing_, Sam thought. _That's one way to put it_. He nodded at the Demon and got his supplies from the other side of the room, mainly some more candles and a bucket of goat's blood. He used the goat's blood to paint a circle which roughly paralleled the Devil's Trap on the ceiling.

"Oh, now, that's just gross," Dean complained. He craned his neck for a better look at the Demon. "Dude, why are you even bothering with this? I mean, this is such a James Bond villain thing to do. Why don't you just kill him and be done with it?" _Because you gotta know something's not right_, Dean thought. _Something's not right, something's off, something's . . . what is it, what is it—what's this card they haven't played . . ._

Sam tried his best to ignore Dean's thoughts even as the Demon blew Dean off. "You worry too much," the Demon said to Sam's brother. "Don't worry, Deano, everything's gonna be fine. If there's anything left when I'm finished with your brother, I'll let you be the one to kill him, Dean."

There was gratitude in that—Sam could feel Dean's _longing_—and it sickened him, made the cut in Sam's side feel deeper. He stepped into the circle with a knife in his hand, sliced the palm long and deep, letting the blood fall to the floor. The Demon, with a small grin, offered his own hand unasked, and Sam cut his palm as well. The blood mixed together on the ground.

Sam grabbed the Demon's bloody hand and, with closed eyes, began to chant.

He could no longer see the world around him, but he could feel it shift, as if making way for something else. Sam, still chanting, opened his eyes to see the room blurring—colors fading in and out and the walls melting as if they were candle wax. There was a roaring, rushing sound, as if the tide was coming up to meet him, and then nothing at all—a vacuum of sound, blessedly silent. He could feel nothing but the Demon's hand in his own, something warm, solid, in a world where nothing else was—

slipping slipping down rabbit holes—

And Dean somewhere, Sam could still feel Dean, like a part of his own body that had been misplaced on the other side of the room. Dean, thinking, _The truck, the truck—I only heard it start up—I only heard it start up, not pull away . . . Bobby's still . . . _and then Dean's voice, breaking through the barrier of no-sound. "Fuck! You stupid motherfucker, wait!"

But even if the Demon heard him, Sam knew he couldn't wait. There was no going back anymore. They were locked together. This was it.

All Sam had to worry about now was that Bobby could do what he said he could do. As long as Bobby could save Dean, this was worth it. This was all worth it.

As for Sam, he knew he was going to lose. But he'd fight, and that had to count for something.

Dean would have his soul back. That was all Sam had cared about for weeks. As long as Dean was alive, Sam could deal with being dead.

_Little brother has to save your butt for a change_, Sam thought with a bit of a smirk. _You're not the only one who can be self-sacrificing, Dean. I don't regret this. Not at all._

Sam felt himself being _pulled_ out of his own body, not gently but forcefully, being tugged out of his very skin. He lost feeling of the Demon's hand in his own. He lost feeling of everything.

Sam's last conscious thought was, _Take care of yourself, Dean. Take care of yourself—_

—and then he was gone.

IV.

Dean watched the Demon join hands with Sam, knowing something was wrong but not able to figure out what. _Your brother and Bobby are the magicians in all this, and they've got a card they haven't played yet_. But Sam was blocking him, had been blocking him all day, and Dean could not figure out what their scam was. The ritual was real enough and Bobby was gone and—

_Wait_.

Was Bobby gone? He'd seen him leave, yeah, and he'd heard him cross the yard, heard him start the truck—but then Sam had gotten out his summoning tools, and Dean had been distracted. He'd been so absorbed and surprised by what his brother was doing, that he hadn't paid attention to Bobby anymore.

Because Bobby was gone, right? He'd heard the truck start. But had he heard it pull away? Had he heard Bobby _go_ anywhere?

Dean tried to remember. He couldn't. He couldn't remember the truck pulling away.

_Fuck. Fuck._ Bobby was still here.

Dean knew it. He didn't know where Bobby was at the moment, hiding out, waiting for the Demon to be out of the picture, but he knew Bobby was around somewhere, waiting in the yard. _It doesn't mean anything_, Dean tried to remind himself. _Bobby doesn't have power over shit. He can't disturb the ritual, I know that, and he sure as hell can't give me back my soul._

But did Dean know that? What if Bobby had found a way to give him back his soul? It seemed impossible, but Dean had been around long enough to know that pretty much anything you didn't want to happen was possible. If Bobby had found some way, and Sam had made sure the Demon was out of the equation, made sure he couldn't stop them—

"Fuck!" Dean swore. He struggled with his ropes, to absolutely no avail, glared at Yellow Eyes, who was now surrounded by this glowing, pulsating light. "You stupid motherfucker, _wait_!"

Bobby stepped through the front door, what was left of the front door. There was a book in his hands and a small, grim smile on his face. "Hello again, Dean," he said, kicking pieces of the door aside. He stepped inside the house fully and opened the book in his hands.

Dean made a sound remarkably close to a hiss. "You can't do anything," he said, wishing like hell he felt more confident about that. He squirmed against his restraints again, but the ropes weren't budging. He was on his own with this—The Demon hadn't even twitched at the sound of Dean's voice.

Bobby followed Dean's gaze over to Yellow Eyes. "He can't help you," Bobby said, which, dude, yeah, kind of obvious. Looking at the Demon and Sam, you could clearly tell there was no one home. They were staring at one another, frozen, faces completely slack as if they were catatonic. The air around them was glowing and shimmering—magic spells had a funny way of looking like acid trips, sometimes.

Dean looked at Bobby. "He'll be back," Dean said. "Little Sammy doesn't have a chance in Hell."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Sam's not the one I'd be worryin about, at the moment," he drawled. He lifted the book a little in the air. "You know what this is?"

"Julia Child recipes?"

Bobby smirked. "It's a spell for bringing back your soul."

Dean felt the fear stab within him, tried to keep it from showing on his face. "You're bluffing," he said quickly. "You can't give me back my soul."

"Funny thing about that. Sam didn't think I could, either, didn't think there was a spell to take back something that had been freely offered. But there's a difference, you know, in offering your soul for material gain and offering your soul to save somebody, to protect someone you love. This spell only works for someone who has sacrificed something. And that, boy, is exactly what you did."

Bobby shook his head. "Told you it was funny," he said. "I've had this spell the whole time, since before you went and did the dumbest thing you've ever done. If Sam had just called me at the beginning of this mess, I could have told him there was a way to fix you, make you _you_ again."

Dean felt himself breathe faster. He told himself to calm down. Maybe if he could distract Bobby long enough, he could work something out with these ropes. "So, if Sam had called you, you could've, what? Just restored my soul whenever the hell you felt like it?"

"Well, we'd have had to track you down anyway. The spell don't work if the subject ain't there. But yeah, could have done this days ago, when I first found your brother in California. Problem was, Sam was pretty sure the Demon wasn't just going to let us take back your soul. Even without your powers, we figured we could count on a little demonic intervention."

"So you put on a show," Dean said through gritted teeth. Did one of those ropes feel just a little looser? _Maybe_, he thought. _Maybe._ "Made me think that this whole Chud plan was the real deal, not just a diversion. Well, aren't you clever. Big ole gold star for you."

Bobby ignored that. He opened his mouth to read from the book.

"Wait!" Dean said desperately. _C'mon, man, just need a little more time. _"What the hell you doing this for, Bobby? Did you ever think maybe I don't _want_ my soul back? Come on, man, think about it. You saw how I lived my life. You saw all the shit that I'd been through, all the crap I knew was comin. You think I want to go back to that? You think I want to go back to being that guy? Follows orders, blind obedience, more like a damn dog than a real person. Giving up a part of my soul, man, it was the best thing that's ever happened. It was a fuckin _relief_. I'm _done_ with being that Dean Winchester you know. I'd rather be dead than go back to that."

Bobby looked at him evenly. "Then you can kill yourself," he said flatly. "_After_ I bring you back."

Bobby lowered his head and started to read. Dean recognized the language as Latin. He couldn't translate all the words, but he knew some of the big ones. _What's been sacrificed . . . given back . . . release . . . give back . . . make whole . . . release . .._

"Bobby, I'm going to kill you! I'm going to shove that fucking pig hat down your godamned _throat_!"

Bobby didn't even pause. _Return . . . sacrificed shard . . . shard of soul . . . return . . . release . . ._

Dean looked frantically at the Yellow-Eyed Demon, but he was still stuck in whatever realm he was in. His mouth was hanging halfway open, and as Dean watched, a small ball of light issued from his lips. The Demon seemed to jerk a little, but that slack expression on his face never changed. The light passed through the shimmering glow that surrounded him and made its way over to Dean.

Dean tried to edge away from it, but yeah, still tied to a damn chair. The ropes around his arms were looser than before, but not loose enough, not nearly loose enough. He struggled with them anyway, trying to think of anything he can do. _C'mon, Dean think. THINK, godammit. _

But there was nothing. Dean was out of moves.

_Shun the darkness . . . back to the light . . . sacrificed. . . return . . . release . . . release . . ._

"Don't you do this to me, you fucker!" Dean screamed in helpless rage. The light was barely an inch away from his face now, drawing closer, closer still. "Stop it, man, just stop it! I hate you! _I hate you!_"

_Release this soul . . . release this soul . . . release this soul . . ._

"No!" Dean screamed. "No!"

_Release this soul . . . release this soul . . . release this soul . . ._

"Bobby! Bobby, _STOP!_"

The light flew into his open mouth and Dean gagged.

Then, he screamed.

He screamed for a long time.

TBC

A/N: Poetry by Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken".


	11. Chud

THEN: Bobby and Sam initiate the plan to get Dean's soul back. Sam summons the Demon to Bobby's house and challenges him; if Sam can kill the demon in this ritual known as chud, then he gets back Dean's soul. If not, the Demon gets to take Sam's soul. The Demon agrees, not knowing that the entire ritual is a diversion. After Sam and the Demon start the ritual, Bobby comes back in and performs a spell to restore Dean's soul.

NOW:

"_No one's going to take me alive._

_The time has come to make things right._

_You and I must fight for our rights._

_You and I must fight to survive."_

-Muse, "Knights of Cydonia"

I.

Before, when he had been researching Chud, Sam had imagined some sort of shapeless, colorless plane. Like, not an actual place or anything, just darkness and energy colliding into one another, human will and demonic force clashing together in some unimaginable, chaotic battle.

In reality, Sam was standing in some old Western town, wearing probably the worst cowboy outfit he'd ever seen in his life. The Demon, standing twenty paces away from him, was similarly dressed. Of course, Yellow Eyes was wearing a black hat. The bad guys always wore black hats.

It was an old-fashioned, John Wayne-esque showdown. Only without the guns. They _had_ guns, of course, but those were mostly for show.

Sam and the Demon stared at each other, throwing _will_ at one another, never moving, never touching. They didn't need to get any closer—their attack was motionless and mostly silent, and the blood dripping down his fingers meant that Sam was losing.

Sam knew that this place wasn't real, that he hadn't been transported to some set from an old Western flick. It was just a way of understanding the place, of giving him something to work with so that he could fight. He _was_ a little embarrassed about it, though; spaghetti westerns were _really _not his thing. _Dean_ was huge on Clint Eastwood, of course—but Sam preferred his heroes with more than one stoic, all-encompassing emotion.

He had never been able to get Dean to understand that, though. Dean idolized Clint Eastwood; Sam idolized Dean. His big brother was stoic as all hell—but there was more to him than that. Sam saw it, even if Dean couldn't.

Maybe it was fitting that they were here, facing off in some dried up ghost town. It was a 23 year old showdown—where else do you go, for something like that?

Still. Sam could have done without the fringe.

"By the way," the Demon said without saying anything—the words seemed to be flung at Sam, the same way the Demon's energy was, and the words hurt just as much—"I've got to tell you—I just _love_ the cowboy boots."

Sam grimaced and tried to ignore him—he focused on keeping his energy up, shielding himself from attack, because at first he'd attacked without defending himself and look what that had gotten him. _The best offense is a good defense, _Dean-In-His-Head thought, and then snorted. _Jesus, __**I**__ don't even believe that bullshit. Just attack the fucker with everything you got._

And what Sam had at his disposal was Dean, the Dean-In-His-Head, goading him, pushing him through. Self-sacrificing Dean, smart ass Dean, the Dean he had grown up idolizing and following around like a puppy. Sam threw the essence of _Dean_ at the Demon and smirked in satisfaction when the Demon staggered.

Yellow Eyes lifted a hand to his nose, which had begun to drip blood, and flicked the drops away in a disgusted, offhand manner. "That brother is dead," the Demon reminded him. "This is the only brother you have left."

And Sam was overwhelmed, bombarded by new images—_Dean grinning with blood on his fingers, Sam crucified to a wall, hallelujah, hallelujah, Ryan tied to a chair in a motel closet, Ryan with his tongue cut out, Ryan desperately trying to scream, hallelujah, Dean shoving a knife in Sam's side, hallelujah, __**HALLELUJAH**__—_

Sam screamed and fell to one knee, the side of his stomach a sudden agony. The pain had so completely overwhelmed him that, at first, he didn't realize the images had receded. Sam pushed himself back to his feet and looked around in confusion. Why had the Demon backed off his attack? Sam certainly hadn't pushed him away.

He looked to the Demon to see the bastard on his knees, some kind of strange glow being torn from him, pulled by some invisible hand through his open mouth. The Demon screamed, a deep, trapped animal sound, and the ball of light zoomed away, into the open sky where it disappeared.

And Sam knew what it was. "That's Dean, isn't it?" Sam asked, although not really asking—he could _feel_ it, somehow. He could almost sense Dean, back in the motel room, although he had no sense of his own body there. He felt it the very second Dean's soul returned to his body, the very instant Dean's soul was once again complete.

His Dean. His Dean was back.

"You lost him!" Sam yelled at the Demon, so overwhelmed and happy that he was actually crying. "You lost him, you sonofabitch! You lost him! _You lost him!_"

The Demon grunted and struggled slowly back to his feet, the air around him actually crackling with frustration and anger. "He wasn't worth anything, anyhow," the Demon snarled. "The soul I want is yours." The Demon flexed his hands, as if they were talons, and Sam felt pain screaming down every inch of his body. This time when Sam went down to both knees, he couldn't get himself back up again.

"I . . . I saved Dean," Sam managed to say, panting harsh breaths and tasting blood in his mouth. "That's . . . that's what's important. That's . . . all that matters."

The Demon grinned at him and fire seemed to erupt all over Sam's body. "If that's what you need to tell yourself," the Demon said, and Sam screamed again.

II.

Dean opened his eyes. He looked over at Bobby. He looked over at Sam and the Demon. He looked over at Sam.

_Sam crucified on the wall . . . Dean sticking his knife in Sam's side . . . "You were always such a martyr, Sam. I really think you should be remembered that way . . ."_

Dean turned his head to the side and promptly threw up.

It was good, that he had time to turn his head away, because tied up men were only hot when they weren't covered in their own vomit. So, yeah, that was good, only except for, y'know, everything else. _Sam . . . and I killed . . . oh god . . . those girls . . . and Ryan . . . and I . . . Sam . . . SAM . . ._

Dean started throwing up again. He didn't have a lot of food to come back, but he was pretty sure he was yarking up pieces of his internal organs.

_Good._

"Dean." Bobby's voice, and Dean turned his head back to Bobby. Bobby looked at him gravely, almost impassively, his book at the ready in case this wasn't over.

Bobby didn't ask the question. He didn't have to.

Dean looked at him, tear marks tracking down his roughened cheeks. "Bobby," he whispered. "_Bobby_."

Bobby looked at him for a long moment and then dropped the book to the ground. He quickly untied Dean's arms and legs; Dean tried to help him but ended up mostly focusing on not hyperventilating. Bobby tossed the last of the rope aside and hugged Dean without preamble. Dean didn't even think about pulling back. He held Bobby tighter than Bobby held him.

"I should throttle you," Bobby said thickly, "but I guess that can wait till you're feeling a mite better."

Dean sobbed once, only once, into Bobby's shoulder, and then pulled back, rubbing the tears away roughly off his face. His eyes found Sam again almost immediately, standing a foot or so away from the Demon, frozen and bleeding. There was blood coming from a lot of places, his nose, his mouth, his side. His face was slack, without expression, but Dean could feel the (_fire_) pain running through his body.

"Sam," Dean said (choked, maybe) and started to crawl over to him, feeling too weak and light-headed to stand. Bobby grabbed him by the arm and pulled him both up and back from his brother.

"It's too late now," Bobby said. "This one's up to your brother, Dean. Once the ritual has started, there's no way to enter into it or to pull someone out."

Dean didn't accept that. "I can do it," he said. He started to move forward again, and this time Bobby pulled him back so hard Dean stumbled and fell on his ass. "You can't help him!" Bobby said harshly, helping Dean back up off the ground again. "Listen to me, Dean. You can't fight this one for Sam."

And that feeling that he couldn't breathe before, that tightening around his heart, like someone's hand was crushing things within his chest—it was at least twenty times worse now, with Bobby standing between him and his brother. "You—you don't understand," Dean said between gasps of air and Bobby coaching him to breathe normally. "You don't know—you didn't see—what I did—what I—_Sam_—"

Bobby shook Dean by the shoulders, trying to force him to calm down. "Listen to me!" Bobby yelled, and it was so reminiscent of John Winchester that Dean swallowed his jerky efforts to speak. "You _can't_ enter that field, Dean. You'll get yourself killed trying. _Look_." Bobby reached out and barely grazed the shimmering air with his fingers. He pulled his hand back quickly to reveal the cuts deep into each finger.

"The ritual is only between Sam and the Demon. There's no breaking through that kind of magic. To get through, you'd have to be part Sam or something—and I don't just mean close!" Bobby shut down the hope he must have seen instantly spring up into Dean's face. "Lord knows you boys are closer than anything, but this is different, boy; this is something else. You'd have to share a _soul_ with your brother to get where he's gone to, and I'm sorry, Dean; it's just not the same."

Bobby sounded more desperate than Dean had ever heard him, like he'd already lost Sam and was determined not to lose Dean too. "Sam wouldn't want you to get yourself killed, Dean, not when he worked this hard to get you better. Like it or not, this is his fight, son. This is his fight today. You have to let him fight it."

_No_, Mental Sammy said—and Jesus, he never thought he'd be so glad to hear his little, annoying brother's voice bitching in the corner of his mind. _Because that's what he took from me. When he took a bit of my soul—he took the part with Sam in it. He took SAMMY. _Sam had always been his foundation, the thing keeping him from the realm of sociopath. Sam was the only part of him worth anything—and that's why the Demon took it.

_I can't let him fight this all alone_, Dean thought. _I don't care if this is Sam's fight—is THIS even Sam's fight?_

_No_, Mental Sammy said again, patient and firm from the corner of his mind. _This isn't my fight and it isn't your fight—this is OUR fight, Dean. It's been our fight from the beginning. That's the problem, don't you see? Don't you finally get it, Dean? We need to stop sacrificing ourselves for the other and just start WORKING with each another._

_. . . you'd have to share a soul with your brother, to get where he's gone too . . ._

"_I'm Dean!" "Are you sure? Are you really SURE about that?"_

_No_, Dean thought, maybe out loud. _I'm not really sure about anything anymore._

He had felt like he could feel Sam, even when he was tied up in a motel bed before they were driving to South Dakota. It wasn't like he was reading Sam's thoughts, more like he _was_ a part of Sam _Like Sam was another part of his body or something, some kind of demented third arm growing out of his back. Dean could just feel him, know where he was, how Sam was feeling without even thinking about it. Like Dean wasn't just Dean anymore_.

_I'm Dean . . . are you really SURE about that?_

_. . . you'd have to share a soul . . ._

_. . . you'd have to share a soul . . ._

_I can't let him fight this all alone . . ._

_. . . he took a bit of my soul . . . the part with Sam in it . . ._

_. . . like Dean wasn't just Dean anymore . . ._

"Maybe," Dean said slowly. "Maybe I'm not."

Bobby blinked at him. "Dean—"

"No, Bobby, wait a minute. Listen. Something's—something's happened to us, to Sam and me. When Sam did that spell, when he took the abilities back—something changed, man. _We_ changed."

Bobby looked at him doubtfully. "He said it was like you two were connected," he allowed slowly.

Dean nodded. "We are," he said. "We're—we're different, Bobby. Man, I can feel it. Even before, even when I was—" _a monster_, "—before, it was like, it was like being able to feel him wherever he was, like, like knowing where your leg is or something without looking. It's—it's like he's a part of me, Bobby. It's like I'm not even just _me _anymore." The admission was as hopeful as it was frightened; Dean couldn't think too much about its consequences, just what it meant for now. "Sam's always, well, he's always been in my head, in a way, but this is different, man. Maybe—maybe we did mix up parts of our soul."

"Aw, hell, Dean—"

"No, dude, it's not that out there . . . okay. Okay, yeah, it's totally out there, but look, I didn't give up my whole soul to the Demon, right? He only had a piece; he only had—" _Sam_, "—a part of me. So, so maybe, maybe Sam and I, we—we switched another piece or something. Maybe we're sharing a piece of our souls, or maybe it's interlocking, or, fuck, man, I don't know. I just know that . . . that he's my brother. Sam's my brother, Bobby, and I can't just let him die. Look at him, Bobby. He's dying. I can _feel _it."

Bobby looked at him suddenly then, a close, guarded sort of look. "You can _feel_ him?"

"Well, yeah," Dean said. "He's—he's—" _burning_, Mental Sammy filled in, but Dean didn't have the heart to do it. "I can feel what he's feeling, like it's . . . right outside my skin, you know?"

By the look on Bobby's face, he didn't know, but Dean had no other way to describe it, and at the moment? Not exactly the issue. "I can't let this be his fight," he said instead. "I can't. I won't." Dean shrugged helplessly, the tears still drying on his face. "He's my brother, Bobby. He's all I got. I'll die without him."

Bobby just looked at him. There was something on his face there (_anguish_) and it awed Dean a little, knowing that someone other than his brother could feel that deeply about him. "Son," Bobby said, shaking his head a little. "I can't bury two bodies today."

Dean shrugged one shoulder at that. "If you don't let me go," he promised softly, "you'll have to."

Bobby looked away for a minute, swallowing hard at the reflection of the morning sun. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he turned back to Dean and nodded.

"All right," Bobby said with just slightly bright eyes. "Go on then and save your brother, you idgit."

Dean smiled a little, his throat tightening inexplicably. "Thanks, Bobby," he said hoarsely. "Just—you know. Thanks, for it all."

Then he looked at the air surrounding his brother, the bubble that had been created, and walked straight into it without allowing himself time for thought.

III.

Sam knew the nightmare he was trapped in wasn't real—his body was back at Bobby's house somewhere (so far away, it felt, so long ago, as if he'd been playing out this ritual for years now). His body was back at Bobby's house and the rest of him was—somewhere else—some other plane, the spaghetti western movie set—but he couldn't see either of those places at the moment.

Instead, he was lying on a motel bed, his hands nailed into the wooden bed posts. _Crucified again, Jesus. At least you only went through it once_—and that was exactly why he was going through Hell, thinking things like that. It was the Demon, he knew, the Demon throwing images at him, so many painful thoughts and memories that Sam was losing himself, but he couldn't get back to the set from High Noon. Instead, he was trapped on the bed staring at the ceiling.

Jessica screaming his name silently. Jessica burning, screaming in pain.

_C'mon, Sammy_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _You gotta focus, man. She ain't real. None of this is real, man, none of it. Lift your arms. There's nothing tying you down._

He couldn't, though. He could feel the blood dripping backwards down his wrists. His mother was on the ceiling now, asking why she had to die for him. Her and Jess, in their matching white nightgowns.

_Why me_, Jess screamed. _Why_

_did I have to die_? Mom finished.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "I'm sorry."

_Jesus, Sam_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _C'mon, you gotta snap out of this. It's killing you, man, you know that, right? All that anger and guilt—the Demon's killing you with it._

And that, at least, Sam knew. He didn't think he'd ever hurt so much in his whole life. Every inch of his body felt like it was slowly burning, burning with Jess and Mom—but he still couldn't break free.

Dean was looming over him, a blade in his hands. Blood in his hands. _I did it for you, Sammy._

_He's fixed now. That's over with. He's back to Dean again. You saved him, Sam, come on now. Use some of that giant brain power and save yourself._

Dean smiled above him, the blood from his knife dripping on Sam's forehead. _You so sure about that, Sammy?_ he asked. _Maybe that's just what you wanted to believe._

"No," Sam said. "No. I felt it. I _saw_ it."

_You can feel this, Sammy, can't you? _Dean sliced the knife gently up Sam's cheek. Sam tried not to scream, had to bite hard into his lip to avoid it. _You keep saying this isn't real. Maybe that wasn't real, either._

"No," Sam whispered, but his conviction was lost. Maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe Dean had gotten free.

Bobby stepped up next to Dean, blood spilling from where his throat had been slit. _I want to thank you there, Sam. Always wanted to be another person to die for Sam Winchester._

Sam closed his eyes tightly. "You're not real. You're not real."

_Sam?_

"You're not real. _You're not real_!"

_Sam? Sammy? SAMMY?_

Sam jerked against the sound of his brother's voice. He opened his eyes, but there was no one there. Just Dad, drunk and kicking an eleven year old Dean around. Little Dean looked at him with wide eyes. _I did everything he ever asked. Why didn't he ever hurt YOU?_

_Sammy, godammit, you answer me! Where the hell are you?_

"I'm here," Sam whispered as he closed his eyes. _This had to be over soon. Let this be over soon._

"Sammy?"

Sam didn't open his eyes, didn't want to see another fake Dean trying to hurt him, trying to bleed him dry. _Not real not real not real. _Jessica screamed and Sam felt tears escape his closed eyes.

"Sammy, it's me. Come on, man. Look at me. Open your eyes."

Sam opened his eyes. Dean was standing there next to the bed, not Evil Dean or Little Dean or even the Dean-In-His-Head, but the real Dean. His Dean. Except, that wasn't possible.

_Even if Dean's safe, _Sam thought, _there's no way he can be here._

Another trick then, some kind of nice Dean, who probably would just turn on him in the end.

"Hey," Dean said. "It's me. Not one of these . . . hallucinations, or whatever. It's me. It's your brother, man."

Sam closed his eyes again. _There's no way he could be here._

"Dude," Dean said. "You think some pansy little chud ritual is gonna keep me from saving the day? Come on, man. You know me better than that. Open your damn eyes."

_It'snotrealnotrealnotreal . . ._

"Sam, you look at me, godammit!"

Sam opened his eyes again. Dean was still standing there, smirking at him. The smirk was forced—but it was so _Dean_ in its forcedness—as if somehow by smirking you couldn't see how pale he was or how tired he'd become. "Dude," he said. "We are so Batman and Robin. And I think we both know who _you_ are."

Sam glared at him. "I'm not Robin," he hissed. Then, with a glance to his nailed hands, "Apparently, I'm Jesus again."

Dean winced. He shifted his weight and shrugged off the (_guilthorrorpain_) discomfort. "Whatever," he said. "Get your lazy ass up. We got things to be wasting, you know what I mean?"

Jessica screamed from the ceiling. _Sam! Sam, why did you let me die this way?_

Dean glared at her. "Shut up, bitch," he said.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam said, almost automatically. As if this was the time to be worrying about being politically correct in how one spoke to women. Of course, this was Jess . . .

_No, it's not_, Sam reminded himself. _Not real._

Dean just shrugged. "Well," he said, which, for Dean, was about as close to an apology as you got. "Are you gonna get up or what, Robin? Did I mention we've got a time table here?"

Mom screamed this time. The expression on Dean's face flexed when he saw her, but he looked back at Sam. "Come on, Sammy. It's time to get up."

Sam stared at Dean. He wanted so much for him to be real . . . _it can't be him, it can't_ . . . but what if it could, what if this was really his brother? He _needed_ his brother, needed Dean to be Dean again, and it couldn't be him, but _could it?_

"Are you real?" he asked Dean. "Are you real?"

Dean smirked. "I'm more than real. I'm _awesome_."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Whatever, Robin. Makes sense to me."

"_Stop _calling me Robin."

"Okay, Boy Wonder. Chill out."

"Dude. _Seriously_. I don't even get Robin. Exactly what is the point of a mask that only covers half your face?"

Jess screamed again. _Sam, please, save me!_

"Dude, I know. Like, yeah, as long as no one can see the top of your nose, man, you're solid. Gold star for you"

Sam snorted. "And Clark Kent, with the whole glasses thing? What the hell was that all about?"

"That was about Superman being lame. He wore tights. _Batman_ didn't wear tights."

"That's because Batman is awesome."

"And that is why I am Batman."

Sam laughed. He was still crying, a little, tears silently pouring down his face, but he was laughing too. He could feel the nails sliding out of his palms. Dad stood behind Dean. _If you had just died instead of your mother . . ._

"Give it up," Dean told him. "It's over. Man, it was over the minute I got here." He extended his hand to Sam, giving him a hand up. "You ready to finish this bitch or what?"

Jess screamed again. _Please, Sam, don't leave me!_

Sam took a breath, swallowed. He gave one last look to his girlfriend on the ceiling.

Then he looked at his brother and took his hand.

"Only if I get to be Batman," he said.

IV.

As Sam took Dean's hand, the room, Jess, everything, it all just faded, until they were back in that ghost town, standing together twenty feet away from the Demon. Dean looked down at his matching white cowboy outfit.

"Dude," Dean said. "Seriously?"

The Demon stared at them in disbelief. "You . . . you can't be here. It—it's not possible."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Man," he said. "You're a Demon. You'd think you'd have a bigger imagination or something."

The Demon glared at Sam. "You tricked me," he snarled.

"Uh, actually?" Sam said. "I really didn't expect this to happen."

"Plus," Dean mentioned calmly, "as already previously mentioned, you're a _demon_. You're all about conning people. You can't really be bitching about duplicitous behavior." Dean blinked and looked over at Sam. "Did I really just say duplicitous?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I think I'm rubbing off on you."

Dean tilted his head. "Bitch."

Sam smiled. "Jerk."

"Enough!" The Demon flung his power at them, pain, fire, energy . . . but it barely touched them, just passed through as gentle as a misting rain. Sam maybe felt it a little more than Dean did, but then Dean wasn't bleeding everywhere. The Demon tried again, but it didn't even connect this time. They'd . . .moved beyond that.

"This can't be happening," the Demon said, almost to himself, and for the very first time, Dean and Sam hear the panic in his voice.

"Actually," Sam said. "It can. Because you faced me back when I didn't know what I could do, and you faced me here with only half of my abilities. Half of _our _abilities, half of our—" he glanced at Dean, "—soul. But now you have both us, which means twice the strength, twice the power."

"Basically, I think he's trying to tell you that you're fucked," Dean added helpfully.

The Demon thrust forward with his power, again and again. And again and again Dean and Sam shrugged it off. Because Dean had to save Sam and Sam had to save Dean and there simply was no other option for either of them.

Neither of them could lose. Not this fight. Not their fight.

So, they won.

Dean and Sam stepped forward together, pushing their minds, their will, their essence _together _. . . Dean's inappropriate sense of humor and Sam's freakish geeklike knowledge and Dean's unwavering loyalty and Sam's understanding and compassion . . . they threw it together at the Demon.

The Demon staggered to his knees.

"No," he said, blood pouring from his mouth. "No, no. You can't. You can't—"

_Yes_, Sam thought.

_We can_, Dean thought.

Sam pulled the Colt from his side, and he and Dean both wrapped their fingers around the trigger.

_This is for our Mom._

_And our Dad. And for Jess._

_And for everyone else—_

_everyone you took—_

_you sorry, son of a bitch._

"NO!" The Demon screamed. "_**NO**_!"

They pulled the trigger.

V.

There was light, blinding light, everywhere, like the world exploded.

Maybe it did.

For a moment.

Then the light folded back, disappeared entirely, to reveal Bobby's house in South Dakota. Sam and Dean were standing next to each other, their hands wrapped around the real Colt. There was smoke still coming from the barrel. The Demon was on his knees in front of them.

There was a crackling sound and light around the hole in his forehead.

The Demon's mouth opened, like he was trying to speak. He blinked once, twice, and then fell over, dead.

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

For a moment, they didn't speak. They didn't even move. They just looked at one another and thought the same things. The Demon dead, their mother on the ceiling, Jessica avenged, Jessica burning, their father and his orders, their father and that Christmas, a thousand car trips, a thousand hunts, blood, blood everywhere, hospital visits and séances, ghosts, shouts and accusations, arguing over music, arguing over the future, a thousand "bitches" and a thousand "jerks," a million bad jokes, their first time at Uncle Bobby's, Dean telling a reluctant Sam about girls, laughter loud on the open wind, tears rolling silently down faces, hidden hurts, broken bones, CPS, fear, horror, leaving for Stanford, normalcy, loss, a need for vengeance, a need for blood, Ryan in the closet with his tongue cut out, Sam against a wall, Sam crucified, shooting Dean and shooting him again, killing those girls, fucking those girls, all those girls, burying those girls, Bloody Mary, bloody flowing tears, trying to save Sam, trying to save Dean, a thousand miles, a thousand dreams, trying to kill, trying to _be_—

They fell down to their knees, oblivious to their surroundings. "Sam, Sam, Jesus. I'm so—I'm so sorry—"

"God, Dean, how could you do it, how could you do that, how could you sell your—"

"—so sorry, man, please, I'm so, so godamned—"

"—soul, man, I was so scared. I was so scared—"

"—sorry, Sam, please, please, I'm so—"

"—Dean, I—"

"—Sam, _Sam_—"

Bobby stepped outside to give them so privacy.

TBC

A/N: Well, that's it. Just an epilogue to go—although, don't fear, it'll be very long, very full epilogue. As always, love to hear your thoughts.


	12. Epilogue

A/N: Well, this is it. It's taken about six months longer than I originally planned, but it's been an incredible ride and I've had a lot of fun writing this fic. I hope everyone's enjoys (and just so you're warned: this is a looong chap).

NOW:

"_Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"_

"_That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."_

"_I don't much care where."_

"_Then it doesn't much matter which way you go._

" _. .. so long as I get somewhere."_

"_Oh, you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough."_

_-Alice and the Cat, Alice in Wonderland_

I.

The few weeks after were very . . . weird.

Sam and Dean stayed with Bobby. This wasn't so much a decision on their part as it was an order given by the older man, quiet, mild, but no less intractable. Had John Winchester been alive, he might have yelled, might have screamed. "You _will_ stay here till I _say_ you're ready." That was John Winchester. No room for questioning. No backtalk.

Bobby was pretty much the same, only less with the yelling and more with the . . . Bobby-ness. Instead of screaming about orders, Bobby'd taken a beer from the fridge and leant against the wall. "You know where the room is," he'd said, daring them to argue.

Neither of the boys did. They didn't have the energy to fight much of anything, right then.

The first few days were the worst. Sam wouldn't let Dean out of his sight no matter what, and Dean couldn't seem to meet Sam's eyes . . . no matter what. Could barely meet Bobby's, for that matter, and mostly didn't—if he spoke at all, he spoke to the floor or the wall or the ceiling—anything, but who he was talking to. Mostly he just nodded or shook his head accordingly, eyes shadowed, refusing to say anything unless it was absolutely necessary to do so.

Not that it often was.

Sam and Dean had sort of moved beyond that.

II.

A few nights after the Demon died, Sam was sitting on the floor outside the bathroom. His father's journal was resting a few feet in front of him, seeming somehow small to Sam, almost insignificant. They'd relied on it so much over the last few years, let it tell them where to go, what to do, how to hunt. Now, it seemed that there was so much that _wasn't_ in it. The story was incomplete. So many pages empty.

Sam and Dean had been through so much over the last month. None of it was in this book. None of it was close to anything their Dad could have imagined.

Sam looked at the journal before him and lifted it in the air with his mind. He made it fly around the room for a few minutes before letting it sink back down to the carpet.

There had been a part of Sam, a huge part of him, that had hoped his abilities would die when the Demon did, that, after all was said and done, he could go back to being normal. As if that was even possible, as if he'd been normal _before_ his psychic powers started manifesting. Normal was a dream that had crumbled to ash about the time his brother went evil and soulless on him. Now, with _his _Dean back, Sam was the closest to normal he was ever gonna get. And he could live with that.

They just . . . had side effects now.

Sam sat on the floor outside the bathroom, listening to the scrubbing sounds of Dean brushing his teeth. Sam could hear it, but he could also feel it—could practically taste the minty freshness circling around his own mouth. He could feel Dean standing in the bathroom, face tilted down, never looking at himself in the mirror. Sam could feel Dean in his head pretty much all the time now, and he could feel Dean's ability to feel Sam too.

Jesus, they were fucked up. But that was the nature of being a Winchester. Dean had said it best in his (_suicide_) goodbye note: _Nothing good's ever happened to a Winchester, anyway._

Sam didn't know the origins of his abilities, didn't know if they were a gift from the Demon or a genetic mutation. But like it or not, they were a part of him now. Magic had a way of stitching itself inside you.

Sam knew that, better than anyone. And he could feel (_think, taste_) that Dean knew it too.

It wasn't that Sam knew everything his brother thought. It wasn't that he always knew where Dean was, or what he was doing, or what he was thinking about doing. It was just that, if Sam concentrated enough, he could usually figure it out.

Eventually, that could get pretty awkward. But Dean's mind was so far from sex right now that it almost didn't feel like his brother.

It worried Sam a little. But everything worried Sam a little, these days.

Sam trailed his fingers down his father's journal, trying to take comfort from the familiar feel of old leather. _Dean_, he thought, and then tried to push the thought forward, project it to his brother consciously instead of just randomly picking up bits and pieces. _Dean? You hear me?_

Sam felt Dean pause, toothbrush held frozen in the air. _Yeah?_ Dean asked warily, and, behind that muttered, _This is so friggin weird._

Sam smiled at that. He didn't really have anything important to say (_except I love you and how could you do this to me and are you okay and I'm scared Dean I'm scared_) but he had to say something because he was the one who started this. _Just . . .checking in_, he said, which was beyond lame because—

_Jesus, Sammy. I've been in the can all of five minutes. What, you miss me already?_

The humor in that was sticky, awkward—humor was coming pretty difficult for both of them these days—so Sam just chose to ignore it entirely. _Yeah_, he thought simply to Dean. _I do_. And it shouldn't have been so surprising, because he'd only had Dean back for three days, and Dean had been gone an entire month.

His Dean, anyway.

Dean didn't have much of a response to that. There was a surprised, sort of warm feeling, a quick _youdid?youmissedme?youloveme?iloveyoutoo_, before being hurriedly brushed away, repressed as if it had never been felt in the first place. Sam heard Dean turn on the faucet and felt him spit out the toothpaste, wash out his mouth, gargle a little. Do the normal night routine. Once he was done, Dean went to sit down on the floor, cross-legged, mirroring Sam across the bathroom door.

_Things can't ever be the same, Sam_, Dean thought to him. The bald honesty in the statement surprised Sam a little. Dean, it appeared, was better equipped to deal with his emotions if he didn't have to express them out loud or look at the person who he was expressing them to. That bothered Sam, but this was a step; this was the most honest thing Dean had said to him since the Demon died and they had sort of fallen apart together.

He felt Dean take a breath. _I'm . . . I . . . I can't . . ._ A rueful laugh, then, bitter and resigned. _'m all fucked up, Sammy. I . . .I'm all fucked up._

_I know_, Sam thought, mostly to himself, although he wouldn't be surprised if Dean had heard it to. _I know_, he thought again_. I know. We both are._

He felt Dean nodding, and then they were quiet. Sam, trying to think of something to say, went back to levitating the journal for the hell of it. He tried to imagine what his father would say if he could see the two of them the way they were now. Sam playing with his telekinesis, idly and telepathically chitchatting with his brother . . .

_He'd probably shoot us both in the heads and move on_, Dean said dryly. It made Sam's lips twitch upwards. He liked to think that it wasn't true, but it was hard to know what John Winchester would make of his sons now. Sam supposed it didn't matter. Whatever happened to him and Dean, they were in this together now.

_We were always in it together,_ Dean thought. Sam shook his head.

_No, Dean. If we'd been in it together, you wouldn't have left the way you did. You wouldn't have made that deal. If we'd been in it together, we would have faced what was happening. We'd have been there for each other. We'd have been standing side by side._

A silent sigh, then, almost imperceptible. _I did what I had to do, Sam._

_Do you regret it? _Sam asked.

Immediately, there was a chill in the air, something physical, tangible, frosted over. Sam could feel a sliver of ice moving down his spine as it tracked its way down Dean's as well. Sam felt his brother draw back from the door a little, as if trying to create a distance between them. _I'm sorry for what I did to you_, Dean finally said. _I'm sorry for that. You'll never know how sorry._

_Maybe_, Sam thought, even though he knew _exactly_ how sorry Dean was. He could feel it, the guilt in his own gut, threatening to split him, to tear him in half. _But that's not what I asked you, Dean. I didn't ask if you were sorry. I asked if you regretted it. If you regret making that deal._

Another pause, long and chilled, and then suddenly the door opened. Sam scrambled up and peddled backwards, avoiding a painful death by brother-trampling. Dean stood motionlessly before him, his eyes resting on an arbitrary spot above Sam's left shoulder. "I'm tired," Dean said quietly. "I'm gonna go to bed."

And before Sam could say anything else, Dean left.

III.

_Please don't hurt me. Please, I'll do anything you want._

Dean closed his eyes. He was leaning over the toilet, waiting to see if there was anything else ready to come back up. Maybe a piece of his esophagus—he was definitely down to his internal organs, having already puked up the little food that he'd forced down his throat today. He didn't want to eat, didn't see much point in it, but Bobby and Sam weren't exactly being subtle about shoving food in his direction every chance they got. Maybe if they knew about the nightmares he was having; maybe if they knew that he'd spent the past week vomiting at three in the morning, maybe they'd back off. Maybe they'd just learn to leave him the fuck alone for a little awhile.

Dean almost snorted at that, thinking of Sam constantly hovering in the background, trying to give him space and watch him at the same time. _Right_, Dean thought. _Fat fucking chance of that_. He didn't know why he was bothering, the hiding, the secrets. Sam was gonna figure it all out, sooner or later.

But right now Sam was asleep, safe from all the monsters that lurked in the real world. There was a certain amount of comfort in that—though dreams had never been kind to Sam in the past, and Dean would have to hope that they'd be kinder in the future, would give him somewhere he could rest instead of tormenting him further. The kid deserved that, a place to rest, a place he could just shut off the world for a little while. Dean wanted to get to that place too, but he knew he had no right to be there.

_I have money, if that's what you want. Please, anything, ANYTHING you want, just, just, please, please don't, please don't, please, PLEASE._

Dean tried to silence the voice in his head—_the_ voice, Jesus, because he didn't know whose it was, had no name to put to the face, blonde girl, stacked, tattoo on her right hip. Picked her up out of Arizona, some bar, crappy little dive. Nothing special about the place. Nothing special about the girl.

There were so many and they all sounded alike, all screaming the same things. _No_ and _please_ and _stop_ and _God_ and _save me, somebody, please, save me_. He didn't know any of their names, didn't know what they were like or who they were. All he knew was how good they had fucked and how much infinitely better it had felt to kill them.

Killing them, killing all of them, blood on his hands, watching the light die in their eyes—it wasn't the worst part. It wasn't the thing tearing him up inside. Because he was pretty sure if that was all he'd done—killing those girls, burying them in unmarked graves—he was pretty sure he could get through that, learn to live with it, keep food down, at any rate.

_(And how much of a monster was he, for thinking something like that, for wishing that murder was all he'd done, as if killing those girls had meant nothing at all. As if they didn't have fathers and mothers and little brothers waiting for them to come home and be okay, fathers and mothers and little brothers waiting for the phone to ring, their safe return.)_

He shouldn't have been able to deal with that—no sane person should be able to deal with that—but Dean was pretty sure he could've, if the murders were the only things he was reliving.

Instead, he was dreaming of screwing them, _raping_ the few who hadn't been willing, and only _then_ he would kill them, and only then would he wake up. And he wouldn't wake up horrified; at least, not all of him would be horrified. Some part of him would be screaming _nonono_, but the rest of him . . . he woke up aroused. Jesus Christ, he woke up _aroused_. Wet dreams about screwing and murdering some chick.

Nameless. They were all nameless.

In the dreams, it was just memory. He relived it without thought, without realizing he could switch it, that he wasn't that thing anymore. The nightmares weren't the problem, because they weren't really nightmares just . . . instant replays. It was the waking up that was the problem. It was waking up horrified and disgusted and . . .hard.

Christ. His dreams of raping and murdering women were getting him fucking _hard _. . . Jesus . . . _Jesus_, he was just so _fucked_ . . .

Dean threw up whatever was left in his stomach and then flushed the toilet, standing to brush his teeth once again. When he was done, he left the bathroom and headed towards the kitchen. He wasn't bothering trying to sleep anymore. He couldn't deal with the dreams, or the waking.

He got a few beers from the fridge and his cigarettes from the kitchen table. He knew Sam and Bobby didn't approve of this newfound habit, but he had so much shit on his plate it was a little ridiculous, at the moment. He wasn't about to throw nicotine withdrawal in, too. Anyway, he wasn't gonna live long enough to die from lung cancer. Wasn't sure he even wanted to see 30, these days.

He padded barefoot outside. It was cold as fuck out, still early, early morning, but the darkness out here was more comforting than the warmth inside. He sat down on the porch steps in nothing but his sweat pants and a thin T-shirt. He lit a cigarette, cracked open one of the beers, and drank deep.

More than half the bottle was gone when Dean remembered that he had to stop and breathe. He wasn't very interested in that, but he knew that Sam sure would be.

_I don't get it. _Candy or Callie's voice, something with a 'C', anyway, which was more identity than the other girls had. She hadn't been scared for long, too drunk and confused. Dean had killed her quick. She had bled out within minutes.

Fucking merciful, compared to the other girls (_and there were so many other, nameless girls_). She was the lucky one.

_Please, I'll do anything you want._

Maybe they were all the lucky ones; maybe it was better that they were dead. They didn't have to live with the fear; they didn't have to know what kind of monsters were out there. Not like that kid, Ryan. Ryan knew. He _knew_ what was out there now, lurking in the shadows, ready to attack. Dean remembered the moment that boy's tongue gave way, remembered the ripping sound, like tearing cloth between his fingers. He remembered the boy's mouth filling up with blood.

And Sam . . . and Sam . . . pinned to the motel wall, spread like fucking Jesus, crucified, bleeding, _terrified_ . . .

Dean finished his beer and cracked open the next one.

By the time the sun came up, Dean was three beers in and definitely a little buzzed. Normally, three beers would be friggin nothing, about the same high he'd get from a soda, but Dean had eaten next to nothing in a week, and the beer had hit him hard. He had just opened his fourth beer and was grinning at the rising sun when he heard footsteps behind him, slow, not trying to be quiet.

"Bobby," Dean said without turning around. Sammy was still asleep—Dean could almost feel him, shifting under his covers. Dreaming something. Dean wasn't sure what. It wasn't a nightmare, anyway. Something without blood or claws or psychotic brothers. _You sleep, little brother,_ Dean thought. _You find yourself a place to rest._

Sam had been holding back the last few days, trying not to poke at him too much. He obviously wanted Dean to talk, but Dean couldn't and Sam seemed to understand that. Mostly, Sam just kept a close watch, hovering a little but ready to pull back at any moment. Months ago, that shit would have pissed Dean off. Now, he was grateful. Sammy was the only thing keeping him anywhere near sane.

Not that this was necessarily a good thing. Situations might be improved by Dean going full on fucking nuts. They could lock him in an asylum somewhere, pump him full of sedatives, keep him staring at pretty flowers or rainbows or something. Hell, he'd probably be happier, not that he deserved to be happy. But Sam deserved to be happy; Sam deserved so much more than Dean had put him through. If Dean was in a nuthouse somewhere, maybe Sam could lead something of a normal life. He could move on, not worry about Dean. Dean would be safe, after all.

_Getting hard from some girl screaming, "God, god HELP ME!"_

Christ. He belonged in a fucking nuthouse, all right.

"Think that's such a good idea?" Bobby asked from behind him. "Sunrise is an awful early time to be getting drunk, boy."

_Not drunk_, Dean thought, _just buzzed. _But Bobby wasn't Sam, couldn't read Dean's thoughts, his guilt. Dean shrugged, and Bobby probably read it as, _Fuck off, I'll do what I want_. There was a little bit of that. A little bit of _stop trying to help me; I don't want it._

"You're scarin your brother, Dean. Scarin me a little, too."

Dean sipped his beer and turned to look at Bobby. The guy didn't look scared, but Bobby was like that sometimes. Took a lot to rattle a guy like that, and Dean couldn't think of anything he'd done recently to warrant that kind of fear. Dean wanted to turn his back on him, just drink his beer and say nothing at all, but he wasn't a little kid anymore. He couldn't pretend to be a mute just because he felt like it. Besides, this was the kind of thing that warranted a voice, if Bobby was really worried about him turning into something else again.

"'m not changing back," Dean said quietly. "You don't gotta worry bout that; I'm not gonna do—what I did. That's done." He thought for a minute, tried to replay the last few days over in his head. He couldn't think of anything he'd said that seemed particularly darkside, but his whole head was fucked. What did he know?

Bobby shook his head and looked almost disgusted with Dean. Disgusted and concerned, all wrapped up under a funny hat and a grizzled beard. "Jesus, Dean," he said roughly. "Boy, we're not scared _of_ you. We're scared _for _you, ya numbnuts."

Oh. That was different, then. That _was_ something Dean could turn his back on, and he did, returning his gaze to the cloudless pink and gold sky above him. After a minute, Bobby stepped closer to him. "We didn't get you back just to lose you again, Dean. Talk to your brother. Let him help you."

"I don't need help," Dean snapped. _I'M not the one who needs help. I'm not the one who got tortured, got CRUCIFIED, by his own fucking brother. I'm the bad guy, Bobby, don't you get that? I'm the bad guy, man. I've always been the bad guy._

Dean tried to drink another sip of his beer, but Bobby snatched the bottle away from him. Dean frowned, but Bobby just raised his eyebrows, unapologetic.

"Come on," Bobby said, at last. "I'll make us some breakfast; get something in that stomach of yours. Not the finest chef in the world, but I think I can manage scrambled eggs."

Dean shrugged again. Bobby couldn't read him, not the way Sam could, but Dean always knew how to talk without saying anything. He sent him a look that said, _Not very hungry, Bobby._

Bobby sent him a look, too: _Wasn't a request, Dean._

IV.

Sam was exhausted. He was beyond exhausted; he was _beat_. He felt like he had been kicked around and stomped on and maybe dragged behind a wagon for good measure. Some of it was physical, he knew, but mostly it was just mental, emotional. He was just so _tired_ from everything. Getting out of bed had absolutely _no_ appeal.

Of course, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, only forced him to think about the same things over and over.

Losing his brother, searching for his brother, finding his brother—but not _his_ brother. Finding Dean not but not _his_ Dean, and it was still hard as hell, reconciling that. Sam wasn't scared of Dean or mad at him—well, that wasn't true; he was fucking _pissed_ at his brother, but not because of the torture part. That was the easiest part to forgive in this whole mess. It was the leaving him part, the running away to take Sam's place part. It was the sacrifice Dean made, the sacrifices he always made, for Sam.

Dean wouldn't be Dean without the sacrifice. But his soul? A piece of his fucking _soul_?

Sam was so fucking _pissed_ about that, because godamn, he was just so guilty too.

Sam rolled over on the bed and buried his face into his pillow. It was too early in the morning for these kinds of thoughts—better to just go right back to sleep, pretend none of it had happened in the first place. He realized he could smell food from the kitchen—Bobby burning bacon, no doubt. Bobby was good at a lot of things, but cooking wasn't really one of them. Not that Sam could say much. He had trouble with toasters most days. Jess used to find that funny. _My genius pre-law boyfriend. Defeated by the cinnamon Pop Tart._

What he wouldn't give to be battling Pop Tarts again. Maybe even Toaster Strudels. In the grand scheme of things, breakfast was a lot easier to deal with than demons.

_We killed The Demon. We killed THE DEMON._

Sam was still trying to get used to the idea.

The smell of burning bacon made Sam's stomach grumble—food sounded _amazing_, even food that crumbled to ash in your mouth like it had just been exorcised—but Sam was just so low on energy. He didn't want to move anywhere. _Come on, Sam_, Dean-In-His-Head said. _Time to get up. Rise and shine, whatever. Daylight's wasting, little brother. Let's get a fuckin move on._

"Fuck off," Sam muttered in his pillow. Daylight wasn't wasting. Daylight was barely there. He shouldn't even be awake right now. He'd probably have fallen right back asleep, except that Dean wasn't in the room with him. Dean had been getting up before daybreak for almost the whole week they'd been there. Sam knew that Dean was getting sleep; he just wasn't sure how much.

_Well, if you're so worried about the poor bastard, why don't you get up and check on him?_

That was a good idea. Except, Sam was so _tired_. And it wasn't like Dean would talk to him about how he was doing. Dean was barely talking, period. More importantly, he was barely eating. Dean not eating was always a sign of the impending apocalypse. Quiet Dean Sam could deal with, but a Dean passing up on free fried food? That was a scary thing to behold.

Sam didn't know how to fix him. And the energy he'd put into trying was wearing him down pretty damn heavily.

He wished Dean would just _say_ something, just let himself cry or scream or _something_. But _his_ Dean, his big, self-sacrificing, martyr of a brother, would never do anything as _weak_ as that, never allow himself to show some healthy demonstration of emotion. He wasn't even self-destructive and violent the way he was after Dad's death. He was just . . . quieter. Just so much more withdrawn.

That should have been a good thing. That should have been manageable.

But Sam worried about just how withdrawn Dean might get.

They were so close now, so much closer than they had ever been before. And it wasn't like they'd been distant growing up; save four years at college, they were practically inseparable. And even when Sam had been at Stanford, he'd thought about Dean every damn day, talked to an imaginary brother in his head whenever he needed to, so maybe once or twice an hour. Sam and Dean had always been close, always been "the boys" wherever they went. But now, it was so different. Sam was a _part_ of Dean, the way Dean was a part of him.

If Dean withdrew to a place that even Sam couldn't reach . . . maybe there was no coming back from that. Maybe after all of this, Sam was still going to lose his brother.

He couldn't let that happen. He _wouldn't_ let that happen.

But Jesus, he was so . . . damn . . . _tired_ . . .

_Dude_, Dean-in-his-Head said. _Seriously. Get your lazy ass outta bed before I come up there and lay a smack down._

_Yeah, okay_, Sam thought. _Keep your panties on, Dean, Jesus._ And then Sam froze, even as he was starting to sit up.

Because before, when he woke up, he'd been talking to Dean-In-His-Head. But just then, right there? That had been _Dean_, in his _head_. Dean, his brother Dean, sitting in the kitchen, waiting to be force-fed burnt bacon and maybe a glass of OJ. Sometime, in the middle of all this insanity, the real Dean had replaced the fictional Dean in his head.

Jesus. This was going to take some serious readjusting.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and forced himself out of bed. He threw on a pair of jeans before making his way slowly to the kitchen. Dean was sitting at the table, pale, deep shadows under his eyes.

_Serious readjusting, Sam?_ Dean thought. _I think that might be the understatement of the fuckin year, dude._

Sam smiled faintly at him. _Amen to that_, he thought.

V.

Dean was working under the car when he felt Sam walk over. Sam didn't say anything, just stood there, only his worn down sneakers visible under the frame of the car. He'd done this for the last three days, just standing, waiting to be acknowledged. So far, Dean had refused to acknowledge him. He worked silently, until Sam went away.

Dean had fallen into a routine at Bobby's over the last week and a half. Every night, he went to sleep and dreamt of the things he'd done, the people he'd killed. Every morning he'd wake and throw up everything that he'd managed to eat the previous day, leaving him spent, exhausted. He looked like road kill in a pair of blue jeans. His ribs, his collarbone, even his cheekbones jutted out. He was a gaunt skeleton that still desperately held onto its skin.

After his daily round of pukefest, Dean would rinse out his mouth, first with water, then with beer, and get just buzzed enough to help him through the morning. He'd ignore Bobby's quiet attempts to talk, Sam's much less subtler ones. He'd work on the car, getting reacquainted. She didn't really need much work, but Dean had missed her.

It was sort of like an apology, for leaving her behind. It was a hell of a lot easier to apologize to the Impala than to Sam.

Sam wasn't giving up, though. He was still _hovering_, all, look, ma, no hands. Observing without prying. Watching without poking. Sam marched himself out to the car, stood there like one of those British guard dudes that don't say or do anything. He'd been coming out here everyday since he'd mistaken Dean for the imaginary brother in his head.

And wasn't that a trip? Finding out that, after all these years, Sammy had a Mental Dean just like Dean had a Mental Sammy. Dean was grateful and unsure and confused as all hell; he didn't even know how to begin thinking about something like that. So, he didn't. It was easier, not to think.

Sam came out here, waited to see if Dean would talk, and eventually wandered off to do whatever Sam had been doing with his days. Dean worked as long as possible, usually until dusk if he could push it that long, then finally scoot out from under the Impala, take a shower, and ignore Bobby and Sam some more. When he went to bed, it was mostly to avoid answering any unwanted questions. Sleep took forever, and when it came, he'd dream, wake up, puke, and begin again.

Dean knew it wasn't the healthiest way to deal with . . . whatever. But it was working for him. He was doing okay.

He couldn't seem to convince Sam of that, though. Sam, who only knew how to deal one way: by talking and crying and acting like a complete pussy. The Oprah Winfrey way. Dean couldn't deal like that.

The only way Dean knew how to do this was to shut everything out. He _couldn't_ think about what he had done, what the girls had screamed, how he'd cut out that boy's tongue—Dean _couldn't_ deal with it, not any of it, so he just chose not to. And he'd be okay; he knew he'd be okay, if he could just get Sam off of his fucking back.

_Come on. That's not fair. Sammy's been trying, hasn't he_? He had been; Dean had to give him that. He knew how hard this was for his little brother. He could feel Sam's fear, Sam's guilt (although he couldn't figure out what was causing it; didn't Sam know that this was all Dean's fault; didn't he know that Dean was the bad guy here?). Sam was ready to tear his hair out from frustration, and yet he was still giving Dean his much needed space, trying to help just by being there. Trying to somehow wait Dean out.

Dean knew it wasn't fair to keep Sam waiting. Sam would be waiting there forever. He wouldn't give up on Dean.

Dean didn't know what to do with that, either.

He sighed, closed his eyes for a second, and then slid out from under the car. Sam was standing there like the giant beanstalk he was, his mouth rounded in a slight O, surprised that Dean had actually showed. Dean wiped the sweat off his forehead and raised his eyebrows at his brother. _What do you want, Sam?_ he thought, not so much projecting as letting it show in his face.

Twenty years ago, Dean and Sam had communicated without ever using words. Sam would chatter by using his voice; Dean would talk by flexing an eyebrow, quirking a lip upward. This new psychic thing they had going was a lot like that for Dean. He never really had to try; he just _looked_ at Sam, and Sam knew.

_I wanted to see how you were_, Sam thought back to him. Dean could hear the thought, feel it, see it move across his brother's face. _Man, I . . . I really think we should talk._

Dean lifted a shoulder. _About what?_ he asked.

"Well, about this, for one," Sam said. Sam, Dean noticed, seemed to prefer verbal speech, felt awkward about using his eyes to talk to someone only two feet away. "This is kind of a huge deal, Dean."

Dean shrugged again. _No, it ain't_, he said. _It's just a side effect from all the hoodoo mumbo jumbo. Either it'll pass or it won't. Whatever. Doesn't matter. _He quirked a crooked grin. _As long as I'm not growing claws or something, I'm good._

Sam didn't smile. Shock of the world, there. "Okay," he said. "Then how about this?" Sam gave him a pointed look. _You're not talking anymore, Dean._

_Dude, I'm talking to you right now._

_No, you're . . . looking at me. Projecting at me. You're not TALKING to me, Dean._

Dean smiled bitterly. _Thought you didn't care, man. Thought the talking didn't matter; you just don't want me to be so sad, anymore, right?_

Sam blinked at him, startled, but Dean could feel him remember. Two boys, sitting in some backwater café, one never speaking, one never shutting up. Sammy, crying quietly, too scared of hurting Dean to ask him about his Mother's Day project. Sam, telling him, "That's why you don't talk so much. Because of Mommy. Cause you're sad."

"_Do you want me to talk more, Sammy?"_

"_No. I mean, you can, but I don't care. I just don't want you to be so sad anymore."_

_I'm trying,_ Dean thought. _I swear to God, I'm trying._

Sam hunkered down by the wheel and Dean turned his face away from him. "That's it," Sam said quietly. "That's exactly what I want. If talking out loud is harder for you, man, you don't gotta. I don't care about that. That's not the issue here."

Dean turned back to glare at him. _Then what IS the issue, man, because I am too godamned tired to be playing games with you._

Sam sighed. He touched Dean's hand gently, and Dean pulled back instinctively, ended up sitting with his knees drawn to his chest. Sam pulled his hand back, grimacing, but forced Dean to actually look at him.

_I want you to deal with this_, Sam thought. _I want you to let me help you deal with this. I want you to let Bobby help you deal with this. I want you to acknowledge that there's something to be dealt with. You're not fine, Dean, and you need to stop pretending that you are. What you did—what you did for me—it was the bravest thing anybody could have done._

Sam looked away, then, furious and grieving and complicated. _It was brave, Dean, and it was selfish, and it was scary as hell for fucking both of us. And now that's it over, you're gonna have to face it. WE have to face what's happened to us, what we've done._

Dean looked away again, desperate to retreat back under the car, but Sam wouldn't let him. Sam took his hand again and refused to let go, even as Dean tugged it away. "I forgive you," Sam said quietly, "for everything you did. I forgive you, and I need you to forgive yourself too."

Sam finally let go of his hand, and Dean held it close to his chest. He kept his face blank, looked stonily at Sam, until Sam finally sighed and stood back up. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll be here. I can wait. Just . . . we just became brothers again, man. Just . . . just don't leave me, okay?"

_I'll never leave you_, Dean said instantly without even thinking about it.

Sam smiled humorlessly at him. "You already did," he said. "Remember?"

VI.

They were never sure whose nightmare it was to begin with.

Only that Dean was stabbing Sam, piercing him to a motel wall, and Sam was screaming his name, screaming, "Please," and "Dean," and "Stop." And Dean was shoving the blade in Sam's side when he remembered that this had already happened (_no, this isn't you anymore, remember, Sam fixed you, you're not this THING anymore_) and he stepped back, pulling the knives out of Sam's palms as he retreated.

Sam fell to the ground, confused (_wait, that's not how this is supposed to end)_, and he held his arms around his waist even though the blood flow had already stopped. Jeff Buckley's, "Hallelujah," was still playing, though, from the speaker by the bed, and Dean spun around, started kicking it, attacking it with a single-mindedness he usually saved for rescuing Sam. Sam got to his feet hesitantly, trying to remember what the hell was going on. "Dean," he said, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean spun around again to punch him in the jaw.

Sam fell back, hard, against the wall, and watched Dean blink first at him, and then at the knife in his hands. The color leached completely out of Dean's skin, leaving him empty-looking and sallow. "Dean," Sam said tentatively, pushing himself off of the wall, and Dean glanced up at him. The expression on his face was stripped bare.

"Dean," Sam said again, watching the bloody knife shake in his brother's hands. "What the hell, man? What's going on? Are you okay?"

Dean stared at him, so much _remorseguiltterror_ in his eyes, and he worked his mouth soundlessly, let the knife slip through his shaking fingers. "Sam," he finally whispered, not looking at his brother but at the floor. "Sam. Sammy?"

Before Sam could open his mouth, Dean suddenly disappeared.

Sam was so startled that he blinked himself awake, eyes opening and focusing on the shadowed ceiling above him. He rubbed at his face with a groan, trying to puzzle out the meaning of his dream, when he realized that he could hear the unmistakable sound of someone vomiting. He rolled over, but Dean's bed was empty and Sam had somehow known it would be. He quickly slid off his bed and walked down the hallway to find Dean.

Dean was in the bathroom, puking over the toilet. He pushed back to lean against the wall, rubbing one hand over his mouth. Sam stood in the doorway, staring at his brother, remember how Dean had backed away in the dream. "Dean," he said. "Were you—was that you, in the . . ."

He trailed off.

Dean looked at him, pale-faced and spent. He nodded once and turned away to throw up again.

VII.

They didn't get anymore sleep that night. Sam wanted to talk, but Dean wasn't having any of that bullshit. Talking wasn't going to make this go away. Dean knew it; he didn't know why his brother couldn't understand it.

The whole day, Dean made a special point of staying the hell away from Sam. Away from Bobby, too, and the Impala—he just walked, mindlessly, around the junkyard. He smoked half a pack of cigarettes in the space of a single hour and ignored the cravings when he finished the rest in the afternoon. He had some more, stashed by the side of his bed, but he'd have to go inside for that, and Dean didn't want to go inside.

Dean knew nothing would be resolved by going inside to talk.

Instead, he walked his circles, ignoring his feet when they started to hurt. He'd stop sometimes, staring at nothing, silent and motionless for the better part of an hour. Then, like someone flicked a switch, he'd start walking again, endless, silent circles.

By the time he went back into the house, Sam and Bobby had already gone to bed, probably scared of spooking him anymore if they tried to ambush him. Sam wouldn't be able to wait that long, though. Dean knew that by tomorrow morning, Sam would be tying him to a chair if they didn't have a friggin heart to heart.

Dean also that knew he wasn't going to be able to deal with that conversation without some beer.

After a few hours of lying on his bed, staring at the blank ceiling, Dean gave up on sleep—he didn't want anything to do with it, anyway. He was tired of dreams, tired of pretty girls' voices in his head—all he wanted was to be numb. To just forget about everything.

He raided Bobby's fridge, pulled out as many beer bottles as he could possibly carry, and went out to sit on the front porch with the few remaining cigarettes he had left.

Dean was pretty wasted by the time Sam came out, a couple of hours later, to sit next to him.

"Hey," Dean said, smiling. He handed Sam a beer and Sam took it silently. "Thought I'd watch the sun rise, y'know. Like beauty or sumthin. Like God." He laughed, because that was sure funny. The whole idea of God was just so fucking funny.

He used to sit out with Pastor Jim sometimes, early in the morning. Dad would be out on a job, sometimes gone two, three days overdue. Dean could never sleep, would spend hours standing guard over his brother or pacing holes into Pastor Jim's carpet. Eventually, Pastor Jim took him outside and they'd sit out on the porch a lot like this. Only, minus the beer. Pastor Jim was pretty cool, but sometimes he was just an old stick in the mud when it came to things like underage drinking.

"S a good time," Dean said, lighting a cigarette. He had some trouble with the lighter, but it worked on his fourth try, and Dean let the lighter fall to the ground with a thud. "Pastor Jim said, said s a good time, early inna mornin. Said it was his favorite time, when he liked to pray, like, he felt connected or sumthin, sumthin or other. Said you could see the world like when God was makin it or whatever, see it before the fall, was all gorgeous and, dunno, God-like, I guess."

He chuckled at that, took a deep drag from his cigarette. "Can't picture it," he said. "Been tryin to, but I can't. It's just . . . there's nuthin out there. Can't see nuthin out there, you know?"

Sam said nothing.

"Kinda drunk," Dean announced abruptly. "S good, though, s good. S'just—s'harder to dream, harder to think. All muzzl—muzzy—s good." He tipped his head back, drained the last of his beer, and fumbled for another, accidentally knocking over a couple in the process. Sam opened his for him, when the task proved to be too difficult for Dean. Dean looked his brother in the eye. "You still pray, Sam?" he asked.

Sam watched him. "Sometimes," he said quietly.

Dean nodded, took the beer out of his brother's hands. "Think about it sometimes," he said. "Can't figure out what I'd ask. Not . . . not that I really think anythin's out there, but . . . y'know, s cool, cause there's nuthin out there, s'just buncha lies, just bullshit, but . . .if I wanted to, if I _wanted_ to ask—"

Dean closed his eyes, felt the world shift a little around him. He slid to one side, felt his head land on Sam's shoulder.

"Can't," Dean said quietly, eyes still closed. "Can't ask for nuthin. _I _did this. _I_ did it."

He blinked a couple of times, watching the sun rise from behind the horizon, and pulled himself back up so that he look at Sam again. Sam was watching him silently, tears making his eyes bright. Dean didn't like that, didn't want his little brother to cry. "I'd do it again," Dean promised him. "Cause I love ya. I'd do it again."

Sam face twisted, then, like that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Dean," he whispered.

"I would," Dean said insistently. "I would. Jus—just next time, kill me, okay? Just kill me, cause I can't . . . I can't . . . ." He shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I can't _do_ this, I . . . I don't belong ere."

"Dean—"

"I don't," Dean said. "I don't. What I did, what I did—"

Sam gripped Dean's hands tightly, pushing the beer bottle and dying cigarette away. "Dean, that wasn't you," he said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "It was" He pulled his hands away, clumsily grabbing the open beer beside them. He drank from it, tipping his head, and would have fallen backwards if Sam hadn't caught him by the arms. "What I did, Sam, what I did—to you, to those girls, that kid—I can't, Sammy, I can't—I can't deal with it, I, I _can't_—"

Sam pulled him into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around him, and Dean was just too drunk and exhausted and hurt to even think about pulling away. "We're going to deal with this, Dean," Sam said. "We're going to deal with this together. It's going to be okay, Dean, I swear to you. It's going to be okay. It's going to get better."

Dean sobbed against Sam's chest, the half-empty beer bottle slipping through his numb fingers. "Can't," he whispered. "Can't get better. 'm a—I'm a monster, Sammy. I'll never get better."

"No," Sam said firmly. "You're not a monster. You're my big brother, and I'm not letting you go. You hear me, Dean? I'm not letting you go."

VIII.

Sam held Dean against his chest, rocking him gently back and forth, and listened as his brother mumbled things that were mostly incoherent. Sam whispered, "It's okay. You're okay," long after Dean had passed out in his arms. He wiped the tears from his brother's cheeks, still rocking back and forth, back and forth.

Eventually, Sam glanced up to see Bobby standing unobtrusively in the doorway. Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been there, but knowing Bobby, it'd probably been long enough. He waited, but all Bobby did was stretch out his arms and say, "Give him here." The two of them half-lifted, half-dragged Dean to the guest bedroom. Dean started snoring the second they laid him down on the bed.

Bobby said quietly, "I'll be in the kitchen," and left Sam alone with his unconscious brother.

Sam sat next to Dean, absently running his fingers through Dean's hair. It was a lot longer than usual. Sam hadn't even noticed until now. "I kept telling myself I'd find you," Sam murmured to his brother. "I said I'd find you and I'd fix you, that I'd save _you_ for once, Dean. I told myself I could do it, and I did, but—you're still broken. I—I don't know how to fix this. I don't know what to do."

Sam let his hand linger next to Dean's head for a minute and then drew it back, watching Dean sleep. "I don't know what to do," he said again. "You have to tell me, Dean. What am I supposed to do? How do I make you better?"

He sat there silently for awhile. Dean shifted a bit towards him. His snoring got even louder, and the sound of it made Sam smile a little. "You're worse than a freaking chainsaw," he said fondly. Then, he put his hand to his brother's face, closed his eyes, and concentrated. He didn't know if his brother could hear him, maybe deep down on some unconscious level, but he knew it couldn't hurt. He knew he just had to keep trying.

_I don't know what I'm doing, Dean_, Sam thought to his brother, to himself_. But we're gonna figure it out, okay? We'll—we'll wait it out. We'll wait it out together. In the meantime, this is something I should have given you back weeks ago. Don't lose it again, okay? It doesn't look nearly as good on me._

Sam put his hand to the cord around his neck and lifted Dean's necklace over his head. He put the amulet back where it belonged and smiled again, watching his brother sleep.

After a minute, Sam squeezed Dean's hand once and stood up, retreating to the kitchen. Bobby was standing behind the counter, a cup of coffee offered in one hand.

Sam drank it without tasting. Which was a good thing, ultimately, because Bobby's coffee was practically liquid fire. Sam had taken shots of whiskey with less punch.

Bobby drank from his own cup and let the silence stand for a minute. Then, he said, "Dean's a strong kid, Sam. He'll make it through this. Don't you give up."

Sam nodded, staring into his coffee. "I'm not," he said quietly. He glanced up at Bobby, who was watching him doubtfully, and threw him a brief, tired smile.

"We'll make it through this," Sam said. "I don't know how, and I don't know when. But somehow, we're gonna make it through this."

_We will, Dean. We will._

IX.

Things started to get a little better, after that.

Not that everything got better at once, or resolved fully in a manner befitting a happy ending. Sam and Dean stayed at Bobby's for over a month, recuperating from both emotional and physical wounds. Dean still didn't eat much, had only half of his conversations in words, but he also started looking people in the eye again and even made a few smiles or jokes that wasn't forced. His nightmares didn't disappear, and they were still vivid, still haunting, but he almost never puked afterwards, and he didn't try to hide them from his brother anymore. Dean wouldn't give Sam any details, refused to let him have access to _all_ aspects of brain, but when he woke up, panicked, confused, he'd let Sam talk to him about anything else. Music or movies or whatever random geek thing Sam had picked up that day—they'd talk about any of that, until some of the horror had passed.

Sam's own nightmares started to come less frequently, but they didn't disappear either, and he didn't expect them to for a very long time. The worst ones were when the Demon came back, sauntering into Bobby's home like he owned the place. He'd touched Dean on the hand, and Dean would lose his soul again. "You thought you saved me," Dean would say. "But that's something you could never do." Dean would kill Bobby; Dean will kill Sam, all the while asking, "Why didn't you save me, Sammy?"

Sam woke up from those nightmares, lost, terrified. And then he'd look over at the bed that Dean was sleeping on. "Dean?" he'd ask quietly. _Dean? Dean?_

"S'okay, Sammy," Dean would say, sometimes grumble, into his pillow. Most times, he never really woke up. He seemed to just unconsciously understand that Sam needed reassurance. _Just a dream, man, you're okay. Go back to sleep, Sammy_. And sometimes Sam couldn't go back to sleep, but at least he'd be able to breathe again.

They started to find a slow, easy rhythm between them, a balance of sorts, to make things more manageable. The psychic connection didn't appear to grow any stronger, but it certainly hadn't faded any, either. They learned to put up some simple boundaries, keeping themselves from wandering into places they'd rather not venture. They were brothers and they would die for each other, but some things they just had to keep to themselves.

Mostly, they were simply hyperaware of one another, knowing without thinking where the other one was, if they were okay. Once they got used to it, Sam found it actually kind of comforting. And he could feel that Dean felt that it comforting too.

The brothers talked. They healed. They dealt, as best as they could, for that month or so at Bobby's.

And then, on an arbitrary Tuesday, things went and changed again.

X.

Dean sat on a stool, impatiently tapping his fork against the counter. "C'mon, Bobby," he said. "It was chow time forty minutes ago, man."

Bobby stood over the stove, flipping over bacon that wasn't even burnt yet. He didn't bother to look up. "Don't know what you're talking about, boy. I'm making this breakfast for me. _You_ can drive your ass over to Denny's."

"Bobby, man. That hurts. You know nothing satisfies like a home-cooked meal."

Bobby raised one eyebrow. "Cook it yourself, then. Assuming you know how to use a stove, that is."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Were you talking about _my_ culinary skills, Mr.-My-Bacon-Ain't-Bacon-If-It-Don't-Crumble-To-Ash-In-My-Mouth?"

"Yeah," Bobby said, completely unfazed by this unflattering assessment. "Got Lucky Charms in the cupboard, if that ain't too troubling for you."

Dean rolled his eyes at that. He had to push for it a bit, but the easy banter was nice, stable, relaxing. Familiar, in a comforting sort of a way. It was harder to do with Sam, at least out loud, using his voice, but he was getting there. He was sort of doing okay.

And for the first time in weeks, he was actually really hungry.

He turned to look at Sam, who was sitting at the table reading the newspaper. "Dude," he said. "Can you believe this guy? The shit I have to put up with."

Sam smirked. He turned another page, trying to think not quite so obviously about Dean's improved appetite. Sam was failing, of course, but Dean decided not to rib him about it. Truth be told, he hadn't felt this good in awhile.

"Seriously," Dean said, pounding his fork into the counter for emphasis. "Here I am, a guest at his home, just _wasting away_ while the man cooks his own food in front of me. And to think, this guy actually calls himself our fr—"

A sudden, stabbing pain to the left side of his head cut off the words, made him lose his train of thought. Dean put his hands to his temples. "The hell—" he said.

The pain came again, this time sharply from both sides, and Dean clutched at the sides of his head, started to slide off the kitchen stool. "Dean?" Sam said, but Dean could barely hear it, barely felt his brother's arms grasping his own, keeping him off the floor. "Dean?" _Dean?_

Dean tried to look up, but sunlight was glaring through the kitchen window, so bright that it was blinding, obscuring everything in his sight. He dimly heard Bobby's voice from behind him, could barely make out Sam's scared eyes, locked on his. The pain in his head was overwhelming, like his head was being split open from the sides by a meat cleaver.

It was unbearable. It was too much.

It was also oddly familiar.

Dean gasped, trying to breathe through it, and met Sam's intense, frightened gaze. "Sammy," he whispered. "I . . . I think—"

And then he thought nothing. The world around him disappeared.

XI.

Dean stood in a room somewhere, blinking at a whole lot of pink furniture. The curtains were pink, the couches were pink . . . even the walls had a vaguely pink-peach tinge to them, like someone had swallowed a whole pharmacy worth of Pepto-Bismol and yarked it up all over the place.

_Jesus_, Dean thought to himself. _It's like the fuckin Twilight Zone. Or Hell._

There was a blonde woman standing next to a window, her pale face reflecting in the rain-streaked glass. There was mascara smudged around her eyes, leaving her raccoon-faced with dark, inky tears trailing her cheeks. Her fingernails (pink, of course) tapped against the windowsill impatiently. She was waiting for something. For someone.

She was scared. That was obvious.

Dean could read it in her face, in how her eyes darted back and forth, glancing from the window to the pink space around her, as if waiting for someone to materialize. Her eyes passed right over where Dean was standing as if he wasn't there. Because he wasn't really there. He already knew what this was.

_Jesus. I thought this was done with. I thought this was gone._

Music started playing out of nowhere, startling the hell out of Dean and the blonde woman. _All I want is to be left alone in my average home. But why do I always feel like I'm in the twilight zone?_

Dean blinked, looking around. "The hell," he muttered.

The blonde lost what very little color she had in her face to begin with. It was obvious the song meant something to her, although all it reminded Dean of was annoying 80's pop. "Paul," she whispered, stepping away from the window.

_I always feel like somebody's watching me  
Who's playing tricks on me  
I always feel like somebody's watching me _

"Jesus," Dean grumbled. "Pink hell _and_ Rockwell? C'mon, this is cruel."

The blonde thought so too, apparently. Tears poured faster down her cheeks as she stepped hesitantly towards the center of the room. "Paul?" she whispered again.

There was a flickering behind her, a man with red hair and freckles. Not exactly the most intimidating guy until you took into account the side of his head that was missing and the bloody meat cleaver in his hands

"Lady, look out!" Dean yelled, well aware that the woman couldn't hear him. But she turned anyway, hearing something, and the ghost flickered out of existence before she could see him. She breathed hard, hands going to a silver cross lying around her neck. "Paul, please," she said.

_Cause I might open my eyes and find someone standing there . . ._

The ghost flickered behind the woman again. The woman turned in time to see the meat cleaver swung down into the base of her neck.

"No!" Dean yelled, trying to move forward, too late.

The woman gurgled. She put her hands up to her throat, pushed against the weapon imbedded there. Blood poured from the wound, from her open mouth, still trying to scream. She fell to her knees on the pink carpet, now colored a darker shade of red.

_And I don't feel safe anymore, oh what a mess . . ._

The ghost flickered again, disappeared, leaving Dean alone with the dying woman. She tried to speak again. Blood poured out of her mouth like a godamn faucet.

_Dean? Dean?_

"Paul," the woman was trying to say. _Paul._

_DEAN!_

The woman fell forward on her blood red rug.

XII.

"Dean! _DEAN!_"

Dean had slid off the stool and went boneless in Sam's grip more than five minutes ago. Sam held him upright as much as possible, trying to get a response out of his brother. The only plus side he had right now was that Dean was still breathing. On the other hand, he was staring sightlessly around him, watching something that wasn't there, completely oblivious to both Sam and Bobby's calls.

Sam would have been calling an ambulance _yesterday_ if he wasn't already pretty sure what this was. But it didn't make sense, though, didn't seem possible—_Sam_ was the one with the abilities now . . .

No. No. They had only assumed that, because Sam was the one throwing objects around with his mind. Sam had gotten the telekinesis back. It made sense to think he'd gotten the visions, too, that this psychic link between them was just a side effect, a strange merging of soul between the brothers. It had never occurred to either of them that they might be _splitting_ the abilities.

"Sam?" That was Bobby, and Sam blinked, trying to focus on him instead of his scattered thoughts. "Sam, what the hell's happening to him?"

Sam glanced at Bobby and then back at his brother, who was moving his mouth soundlessly. "I, I don't know," he stuttered. "I think, I _think_ he's—"

Dean gasped suddenly, as if coming up for air, and his body jerked so hard that Sam thought he was seizing for a second. Dean blinked hard, looking around even as he winced.

"Dean," Sam said hesitantly. "Dean?"

Dean blinked at him, worked his mouth, and tried to lift himself up out of Sam's grasp. He immediately sunk back to the floor, his head bowed low, hands clutching the hair at his temples. "Christ," Dean whispered. "Aw, Jesus fucking _Christ_—"

"Dean?" Bobby said, hunkering down by them. "Dean, what the hell happened to you, boy?"

Dean didn't respond, just curled into a tighter ball against the floor. His fingertips were digging into his skull, hands carefully blocking his face. _Jesus, Sam, Jesus. The light, the LIGHT . . ._

Sam nodded immediately, understanding. "Okay, Dean, okay," he said. "Just, hold on a second. Just let me get you up . . ."

_UGH._

"I know. I know, but we need to get you somewhere dark, okay?" _All right, Dean, c'mon. Don't worry, man, I got you_. Sam looked at Bobby kneeling beside him. There was a slightly stunned expression on the older man's face. "I need your help getting him into the bedroom."

Bobby just looked at him for a second, questions written all over his face, but he nodded, helped Sam get Dean to his feet. Dean smirked between them, but it was a sick kind of smirk, like he was suppressing the reflex to gag. "'m not usually this cheap of a first date," he murmured softly.

Bobby raised an eyebrow at him. "Son, I didn't think you even knew what the word 'date' meant."

Dean laughed weakly as they staggered slowly into the guest bedroom. "Dude," he said, eyes closed. "Like you're some kind of fuckin Casanova." He tried to break out of Bobby's and Sam's grip, the bed only two feet away from him, but dizziness caught him, left him swaying in the middle of the room. Bobby steadied Dean while Sam steadied himself—Dean's vertigo was contagious, and Sam was left blinking for a few moments before he remembered to shield himself.

"Sam," Dean said thickly, eyes closed again. "Sam—" –_think I'm gonna hurl, man._

Dean sank to his knees again, Bobby keeping him from face planting on the carpet, while Sam lunged for a wastebasket and shoved it under Dean's face. Dean gagged hard, threw up, and spent the next few minutes breathing heavily. Sam eyed him seriously until he was sure that Dean was done.

"Okay, Dean," Sam said. "Okay, it's okay now. You're okay." He and Bobby got Dean back to his feet and in the bed this time. Dean immediately threw the covers over his head, peeking an eye out only for a second. "Sam," he said weakly.

"We'll talk about it later," Sam interrupted. "Do you need anything?"

_A shotgun._

Sam smirked, but the humor was forced. _Blowing your head off isn't the answer, Dean._

_Nah_, Dean thought. _I just figured I'd blow some holes into Bobby's walls._

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That gonna make your headache disappear?" he asked.

Dean made the mental equivalent of a shrug. _Probably not_, he said. _But it might make me feel better. _The pain flared again and Dean actually whimpered, curled tighter under the covers. "Sam," he said out loud, after a moment. "This is . . . it's pretty fucked up, man."

"I know," Sam said quietly. _I know. It's okay._

He was pretty sure he was lying, then, but he didn't know what else to do.

Bobby and Sam left Dean alone then, taking refuge under the covers. As soon as they were back in the kitchen, Bobby turned and glared at Sam with an intensity that Sam didn't realize was in the man. "What the hell was that?" he asked.

Sam wearily sat back down at the table. Twenty minutes ago, everything had been just fine. Everything was finally getting better. He had been naïve to think that it would last. "I'm pretty sure Dean had a vision," Sam said quietly. "The headaches afterwards—they could be pretty intense."

Bobby's eyebrows rose until they disappeared behind the billfold of his hat. "Intense?" he asked incredulously. "Sam, I've seen your brother running around after his stomach was split wide open, still finished the damn job before finally going down. I have never seen Dean react to pain like _that_."

Sam shrugged helplessly. "Some are worse than others," he said. "I mean, they all suck, they suck _a lot_, but some of them—you just gotta treat them like migraines. Really, _really_ intense migraines."

Bobby stood silently for a minute, trying to process that. Sam let him think—he had things he needed to process as well. "How long's he gonna be like that?" he asked Sam.

"Just depends," Sam said, shaking his head. He was trying not to think of his big brother curled up like that, _whimpering_. He wanted to go to him, help him, but he knew the best thing he could do was to leave Dean alone for awhile. And as much as he hated to think it, there were some potentially bigger problems at hand.

"I don't get it," Sam told Bobby. "The visions, they were always linked to the Demon. Every single one I had came back to him, one way or the other. But, but now . . ."

"The Demon's dead," Bobby finished.

"Yeah," Sam said, "yeah."

_So what the hell is Dean seeing?_

XIII.

Dean felt like crap. Crap on toast. Crap on a cracker. Crap . . . just crap. Too crappy to come up with any wittier crap catchphrases.

But better, sadly. Crappy as all hell, but still better.

Dean slowly wormed his way out from under the covers, blinking at the sunlight that had managed to peek around the bedroom curtains. He had no idea how long he'd been in this bed, no concept of time, really, just pain, pain, and a little more pain thrown in for shits and giggles, but he was pretty sure he needed to be moving. Pretty sure it was time to get his lazy ass up.

He really, really, _really_ didn't want to do that.

Groaning, Dean pushed himself to a sitting position and moved the curtains to the side, glancing out briefly at the blue sky. He was no fucking outdoorsman, couldn't glance up at the sky and say, "Oh, it must be 4:36 on the damn dot," but he'd been lost before, a time or two, and could get a rough estimate based on the sun's position. Right now, it was looking like late afternoon or early evening, which meant he'd been in this bed _all fucking day_. He needed to drag himself out of it, get himself moving.

He still really didn't want to do that.

Dean closed his eyes and rested his head back on the headboard. His whole body was sore, as if he'd been thrown in the ring and pounded on by about fifteen big guys named Bubba. Every muscle hurt, down to his fucking toes, and what exactly had his toes done to hurt this godamned bad? The nausea was gone, at least, and the sunlight from outside wasn't slicing his brain like a cheese grater anymore, but his head still hurt like a sonofabitch, hurt more than any other part of his beaten down body.

_But better than this morning_, he reminded himself. Coherent thought was possible and everything.

Not that Dean really wanted to think, anymore than he wanted to move. If he spent time thinking about what was going on, he'd have to dwell on some shit he really wasn't ready to dwell on—what he'd done, after all, those girls he'd murdered, and now being stuck with Sam's weirdo visions, and shouldn't those have stopped with the Demon being dead? He was pretty sure that should have stopped when the Demon was finally dead.

Too many questions. Too many thoughts. Better to just sink back down into bed and let himself fall asleep. Pretend none of it had ever happened.

Dean sighed. He wished.

Slowly, Dean forced himself to sit up again and, with the grace of a seventy year old man, made his way out of the bedroom. He found Bobby and Sam pretty much where he had left them, sitting in the kitchen with a bucket of chicken wings between them. Sam looked up almost before Dean stepped foot into the room. "Dean," Sam said, jerking in surprise. "Hey, man. How're you feeling?"

"Oh, peachy," Dean snapped, because _dude, Bob Barker walks faster than this, and he's gotta be like 200 or something. I'm fucking awesome, Sam. _He fumbled around Bobby's medicine cabinet for a minute before finding some painkillers. He threw them back dry and walked over to the table, easing himself down before Bobby's and Sam's obnoxiously watchful eyes.

"Shouldn't take those on an empty stomach," Bobby said mildly and pushed the bucket of chicken wings in Dean's direction. The smell of barbecue and grease hit, and it was all hello nausea, my old friend, I've come to talk to you again. Dean closed his eyes and waved off the chicken, forcing the nausea back down. "I can't, man," he said, and Bobby pulled the chicken back.

They sat quietly for a long minute.

Then Bobby broke the silence by taking a long drag of his beer and saying, "So, Sam tells me you're having visions now."

Dean shrugged. Then winced. Even _shrugging_ seemed to hurt. "I guess," he said, holding his head gingerly in one hand. He glanced at Sam out of the corner his eye. "Sammy, man, you're spell-casting just _sucks_."

"You started it," Sam reminded him. "Anyway, it wasn't my fault. The moon wasn't in the right phase."

Dean glared at him. "Next time?" he said. "Wait a couple of weeks. Jesus. I'm never complaining about a hangover. Ever again."

Sam raised his eyebrow. "Didn't you get visions when you were . . . well . .. y'know, before?"

_Before, when I was killing pretty girls and torturing kids for kicks, you mean?_ Dean smiled faintly. _Say what you mean, Sammy._

He hadn't actually meant to say it _to_ Sam, but Sam picked it up anyway. _Dude, _his brother thought. _Don't_. And Dean was just too damn tired to argue.

"Yeah," Dean said instead. "I had visions and dude, they _sucked_, but not like this. This one was . . ." He trailed off and shook his head. The movement caused explosions behind his eyelids and he cursed at himself silently for a good five minutes for just generally being a stupid motherfucker. He ended up closing his eyes and resting his head on the kitchen table.

"Dean," Sam said. "If you want to wait to talk about this—"

"No," Dean said to the table. "It's okay. I'm good." He didn't bother looking up at the collective snorts he heard from above him. "Saw a girl get murdered," he said. "Pretty girl. Blonde. Not much in the boob department, but . . .."

He felt Sam roll his eyes. _Dean._

Dean almost rolled his eyes right back but remembered not to at the last minute. _Whatever, Sam_, he thought_. Just because you're a friggin WOMAN doesn't mean I have to act like one_. "This girl, she was in some godawful pink apartment, like, freakishly happy place, unicorns, rainbows, shit like that. But, uh, she was real scared of something, you know, crying and all, and then this music started playing up out of nowhere."

"What song?" Bobby asked.

Dean grunted. "Somebody's Watching Me. Rockwell. Michael Jackson." He repressed a shudder.

_Dude, _Sam thought. _That's creepy._

"You're telling me," Dean muttered. "Anyway, girl starts calling out a name, uh . . . Paul. Yeah, it was Paul, and then Paul shows up . . . well, guess it wasn't _necessarily_ Paul, but it sure as hell wasn't Caspar the friendly fucking ghost . . . and buries a meat cleaver three inches into the chick's neck."

"Jesus," Sam muttered.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Crazy fun time." He lifted his head up from the table and looked wearily at his brother. "I _so_ got the short end of the psychic ability stick."

Sam almost smirked at him, but the expression never quite made it. He looked back down at the table. "That's it?" Sam asked. "Nothing else? Nothing—"

"Demonic?" Dean asked. "No, Sam, nothing. I mean, maybe if we dug around we'd find something out, some demon poking around the place, stirring up shit, but . . .I don't think so. The Yellow-Eyed Demon's dead as a doornail, man, and he ain't coming back. This seemed pretty straight-forward. Pissed off ghost, creepy music . . straight-up haunt, nothing else." Dean rubbed at his eyes, tried to push some of his weariness back. "Whatever the visions are now, I don't think they're about the Demon anymore."

Sam looked at him. "What do you think they're about?"

Dean paused. "The job," he said, after a minute. "Doing the job. Just like it's always been. There's some innocent girl out there and we gotta find her before that spook does." He smiled wryly. "Some things never change."

Sam nodded, then paused, frowning at his brother. "Wait," he said. "Waitwaitwait . . . you mean . . . you mean you want us to go? You want us to leave Bobby's and track down your vision _now?_"

Dean stared at him. "Well, yeah," he said slowly. "That's what we do, remember?"

Sam's jaw actually dropped open, which made him look pretty damn funny. "But . . .but you're still not . . . no. _No_, Dean. No. We've got to get our strength back, man. We need more time; _you _need more—"

"Dude, we've been hanging out at Bobby's for more than a month. Not that I ain't grateful." Dean swung his gaze over to Bobby. "You saved us, man. Don't you think I don't know that."

Bobby lifted one shoulder. "Didn't do much of the heavy-lifting," he said. "And I ain't in a huge hurry to run you boys off." He looked seriously at Dean. "Don't think you're up for a car trip tonight, son."

Dean wanted to argue that, but he couldn't. He could barely sit up at the table; he knew he'd last in the driver's seat for about ten minutes before he passed out. "Sam can drive," he said, which was such a painful admission that he gritted his teeth. Not that Sam couldn't handle her, of course, but Dean had missed his baby. He'd been looking forward to taking her down the Interstate again.

But that wasn't possible right now, and Dean knew that some battles weren't worth gearing up for. He glared balefully at his brother. "Don't get used to it," he said. "I'll be driving my baby in no time."

Sam, of course, was too busy brooding to notice anything as immature or ridiculous as _a sense of humor_. "No," Sam said again, as this was apparently his new favorite word. "No. We don't have to fight this one, Dean. There are other hunters out there. You . . . you've been through too much, man; _we've_ been through too much. There are other people to save the day for once. You're not—you're not better. We're not ready for this, Dean."

Dean raised a careless eyebrow. "That's the thing with monsters, Sammy. It's all ready or not, here I come."

Sam glared at him. "Don't joke," he snapped. "Not about this. Not about—I just got you _back_, dammit. I'm not ready to lose you again."

_Well, dammit. When the kid sounded like that_ . . . Dean sighed, his face softening at the fear he could see stitched into Sam's skin. _Dude_, he thought. _You're not gonna lose me, Sammy._ Then he leaned forward, and the movement cost him. "Sam," he said, even as he winced, "I don't . . . I don't know why I'm having these visions. I don't know what I'm tapping into or if . . . if anyone's sending them or . . . or whatever . . . but it doesn't matter, Sam, don't you see? This is our _job_. This is what we were raised for. This is who we _are_."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, and Dean cut him off. "Sammy," he said. "I _need_ this. I need to be . . ." _normalgoodahunter again._

Sam's eyes closed. He didn't say anything for a minute, and Dean didn't push. Bobby didn't either, just watched the two of them watch each other. Finally, Sam looked back up, a frustrated but resolved sort of look in his eyes. "In the morning," Sam said. "We'll go in the morning."

"Sam—"

"Dude. This is not negotiable. Besides, do we even know where we're barreling off to? Did you happen to see a mailing address? Maybe a name or a town or even a side of the country to start with?"

Dean glared at him. "No," he admitted, after a minute. All he could remember was pink walls and blood carpets. "But, Sam—"

"But nothing, Dean. This is what we're going to do. You're going to tell me anything you remember and I'll research it while you get something to eat. Don't give me that face. You need to eat something. Then you're going to get back in bed because you look like crap on toast, man, seriously. And in the morning, when it's really morning, like the sun's out and everything, then we can go and find this girl. Okay?"

Dean stared at his brother for a minute. Then, he glanced over at Bobby. "The little bitch is getting bossy, isn't he?"

Bobby shrugged. "Probably best to do what he says," he advised.

Dean sighed and cradled his head in his hands again. "Fine," he said. "Fine. But the very _second_ I feel better again? I'm kickin your ass, man. Just on general principle."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Dean," he said.

XIV.

They said goodbye to Bobby that night, as Bobby was leaving fuckearly in the morning to pick up some parts or something. Sam hugged him and said, "Thanks. Thanks for being there, Bobby. For getting me my brother back." Dean hugged Bobby and said, "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby understood everything else that went unsaid.

When he fell into bed that night, Dean still felt pretty much like crap. He figured Sam would stay up late, researching and geeking-out and whatnot, but Sam went to bed early too, claiming that he was tired. Dean had the idea that Sam just didn't want to leave his brother alone . . . and Dean was kind of okay with that, for right now, at least.

"Dean," Sam said, as they laid down in the dark. Dean waited, but Sam didn't follow it up with anything.

"Yeah?"

Sam shrugged. _I don't know_, he thought. There was silence for a moment, then, "We're getting through this, right?"

_Yeah_, Dean thought. _Yeah, we're getting through this._ And they were, he supposed. They were slowly getting on by. He just didn't know how long it would take for them to feel normal again, for him to feel like a _person_ again. He felt like he never would, and maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd feel like this damaged, crippled thing forever. Or maybe it'd be like all the other times in his life, when he slipped into normal without ever really realizing it.

Logically, he knew that was what would probably happen. But when he remembered slicing through that boy's tongue, he had a hard time picturing it.

"It wasn't you," Sam said quietly. "I mean, it was, but it wasn't. You know?"

_No_.

"Yeah," Dean said softly. "I know."

He shut his eyes against the darkness, saw a darker darkness lying behind his closed eyelids. Pretty girls and bleeding boys and a thousand questions, all how and why and where do we go from here.

"We'll get through this," he heard Sam say, not asking this time but reassuring him. "We'll get through this."

Dean turned on his side, facing Sam, feeling as his body began to relax by degrees into the mattress. _I know, Sammy. I know._

XV.

Sam was sitting at the edge of the Grand Canyon, his legs dangling over the gulch, knowing that he'd been there before but not able to remember when (_Wait_, he thought, _you have been here before, when Dean was missing; you were here in a drea— _and then Dean was suddenly sitting next to him, as if he'd been there all along).

"Don't think this is right," Dean said, as he looked down at the vast nothingness below them. "Pretty sure that they got fences or something, on the real deal, I mean. Wouldn't do to have tourists jumping over the side. Kinda fucks up a good tourist spot."

"You wouldn't be able to see their bodies," Sam said quietly.

"Doesn't mean you wouldn't know they were there. The dead got a way of talking, you know?"

Sam knew. He also knew that this was a dream, although he didn't think about that for too long. Knew that if he did, he'd wake up in Bobby's guest room, and he didn't want to do that quite yet. It was nice here, at the moment. The sun felt warm against his shoulders. He felt safe here, with his brother, sitting at what felt like the edge of the world.

"This could be a place to rest," Sam said, knowing that he'd said those words in some other time, some other dream. "For the both of us, you know. This could just be . . . a place we could go to. A place we could just _be_. No guilt, no consequences."

"No memory," Dean said, nodding. "No hallway of blue doors. No one forcing you to see things you don't want to see."

"No brother's sacrifices haunting you."

"Or father's."

"Or your regrets—"

"Failures—"

"Ghosts—"

"Just you and me," Dean said, smiling into the horizon. "Just a place to rest. I like that, Sammy. I like that a lot." He trailed his fingers against the ground, watched bits of pebbles and dirt fall into the abyss below them. "You can't hear them land," he said. "Wonder what that'd be like, to fall and never land."

Sam felt it again, that dejavu. "You said something like that once before," he said. "Well, not you-you. Just the Dean-In-My-Head. But you wanted me to push you. You wanted to die."

Dean looked at him. "I don't want to die, Sammy," he said quietly. "And I'm not the Dean-In-Your-Head. You know that, right?"

Sam did. This was his brother, his big, wonderful, stupid brother, sitting beside him, and though everything else around them wasn't real, _they_ were, and that was all that mattered. He stood up at the edge, scuffing his shoe against the dusty ground. "I'm glad you don't want to die," he said. "Cause I can't push you again."

"You never pushed me at all," Dean said. "You saved me, Sammy. You saved me."

Dean stood up and, somehow, in the dreamlight, they almost looked to be the same height. "I won't leave you again," Dean said. "I promise you, man. I'm never leaving you behind."

Sam nodded, throat tight, and turned away from his brother. He looked into the dark, deep chasm. "You know," he said, "if we did fall . . . we wouldn't have to land, if we didn't want to. We can do anything we want here. This is our place. Our world. Our dream."

Dean quirked a small grin. "Could be kind of cool," he said, smiling. Without thinking about it, he took Sam's hand, as if they were kids again about to cross a big street. "We're getting through this," he said, and Sam thought that Dean might actually believe it this time.

"I know," Sam said, "I know." He took a small step towards the edge. "I love you, Dean," he said, knowing that he could get away with such a chick statement here.

"Yeah," Dean said, stepping with him. "I love you too. Bitch."

Sam laughed. It felt like it was the first in a very, very long time. "Jerk," he said, grinning, and the brothers tightened their hands together before jumping off the cliff.

Time seemed to stop for a minute and then they fell, fell faster . . .

. . .they fell . . .they fell . . .

. . . and then they flew. . . together.

-FIN

A/N: Well, that's it. My God, it's finally DONE. Woo hoo! I should mention that I have more ideas planned for this universe, dealing with Dean and Sam and how they hunt now that they're both psychic and soul-liked and stuff. I definitely need to take a break, but if any of you would be interested in reading something like that, I'd love to know. Thanks to everybody who's been patient enough to continue reading this story. I hope the end is to you're liking. Here's to being renewed for Season 4!!


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